Though War Rise: Part 1
by ljkwriting4life
Summary: When colonisation happens, Scully finds herself alone in the desert. So begins the search for old friends and the battle to survive. [Written in 2008, in hindsight starts slow til ch2/3 and is angstier than I write now, but it's complete and all chapters will be up. :-D] My first AU, post-colonisation story, with all the regulars: MSR, DRR, Skinner/Other, Gibson/Other. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Though War Rise

By Leese (LJKwriting4life)

Rating: M

Summary: When colonisation happens, Scully finds herself alone in the desert. So begins the search for old friends and the battle to survive. [This is an XF story from 2008 that I'm only just getting around to posting. It's long, in hindsight it starts off a bit slow but picks up around chapter 3. It is complete, and all chapters will be up. My first AU story. MSR, eventually also DRR, Skinner/Other, Gibson/Other.]

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Prologue

 _Rural Virginia - June 2005_

Dana Scully wrapped her arms defensively around herself as she stared out the bedroom window from the second floor of their sprawling rural residence. Their residence, she thought to herself. Or was it only hers now? The house was in her name, as was everything. Her partner of several years was wanted for murder, a crime he did not commit, and escaping from a military prison, a crime he did commit with the assistance of several notable ex-colleagues including herself. It made for interesting memories but not very simple living or financial arrangements.

The house was big, there were secrets hidden there, various means of protection should somebody come for them. If people or those claiming to be people broke in, they would hopefully be to safety before they were found. The driveway was long and gravel, and blocked by a wire gate that scraped very loudly when it was pushed open. Nobody could get in quietly if they were listening.

The house was also set in the middle of nowhere. Neighbours were far away. Behind their expansive backyard stretched a thick wood that provided privacy, though it was far enough away that if they were looking, they would see intruders coming. The front was the same. It was her fortress, but it had become his prison.

Staring out of their bedroom window, Scully watched the earth. Grass dry from summer blew in the soft but warm night's breeze; the sky was black and filled with stars, the moon half-crescent. There was nothing unusual about the night, and she held no fears of intruders. Contrary to all their safety preparations, they had never actually been broken into. Her fears were much closer to her heart. Her fears were that she had done or said something incredibly stupid in a moment of exhausted frustration that had provoked the silence behind her, around her and inside her.

Silence because he was not with her. He hadn't been for more than an entire day.

Scully felt tears sting her eyes and held herself tighter, her stomach slim and soft, her lilac singlet top damp from stress and the summer heat.

Where was he, she wondered? Usually when Mulder got pissy, he ran around the block a few times until he calmed down. Not this time. This time he had 'left'. He had not taken his keys or his phone. She had no way of contacting him. Had he left his keys on purpose, as a sign to her that he wasn't coming back? There had been no words exchanged to that effect. At least, she did not think there had been. Had she said, 'I never want to see you again'? No, she hadn't. Had she said, 'Fine, go away, whatever'? Maybe.

Scully swallowed painfully as she contemplated the unusually intense emotions she was feeling. Was it so pathetic to miss him already? This much? Was it so horrible that she had a stabbing, unshakable fear inside her that something bad had happened, because he had never left her for this long? They hadn't even really been fighting about anything serious, right? She let her tired, sore eyes shut and tried to remember.

She had worked eighteen and a half hours at the hospital. It was not normal. Usually she worked ten hour shifts during the day, but she had only been rostered on to an eight hour evening shift. She had called Mulder in a spare moment during the night, but he hadn't picked up his mobile. So she had left a message. Something along the lines of, 'Honey it's me. It's crazy here and I'm going to be late, I'm sorry. See you when I get home'.

Had there been an insincere tone in her voice? No, she didn't think so. The call had been made around seven hours into her shift. Twelve hours later, after driving the thirty minutes from the hospital to their remote home, she had returned. She had managed only a half-hour break in that time, and she had spent it eating rather than sleeping, though perhaps she had shut her eyes for ten minutes. She thought a nurse had come to wake her.

Scully hated double shifts. They did funny things to her mind. The day blended together and she had been at the hospital for so long that she could dream for eight hours about a complete day of work and it would be real to her upon waking. She was reminded why she had decided not to practice medicine straight after graduating. She was reminded every day. She was NOT twenty-something anymore. She was forty. Nearly twenty hours away from home at one time did her no good.

Focus Dana, she told herself. So she had come home and Fox had been waiting. She called him Mulder unless they were in a particularly intimate moment. She had called him Mulder ever since she had walked into the basement office of the FBI more than twelve years previously. He called her Scully, or Doc, and sometimes Dana. Again, it depended on the mood. She liked when he whispered her first name in her ear, just as she knew he liked hearing Fox from her, but they still reserved those names for special times; as though they meant more than they really did.

Scully laughed when she realised the sudden and intimate fantasy in her head had nothing to do with what she was meant to be contemplating. She frowned, forcing herself to remember what had happened the previous evening, forcing herself to analyse the fight for anything, any sign of where he might have gone or when he might be back.

Mulder had been waiting for her. It was afternoon. He was mad she hadn't called again. She had asked if he was so worried, why he hadn't called her for a change. She always called him. It worked both ways. Then...he had said something about being sick of sitting around just waiting for her to come and go, wondering what her schedule would be so he could fit his meagre definition of a life around her 'routine'. He had said something about her job being no good, that they used her there, and that they relied on her too heavily.

It was a rural area, she had replied. Of course they relied on her. She was a talented, intelligent surgeon and could have practised at any major medical centre across the country, but she had chosen that hospital, not for herself, but for 'them'. Didn't he understand that? She wasn't working long hours for anybody but the two of them, to earn money Mulder couldn't, to earn a reputation that could help them in the future, to earn some self-respect that she thought she deserved after being gutted so badly in that last year at the FBI.

He had made an odd expression then, his eyes had flashed with something, maybe anger, maybe regret. She had seen it even though she wasn't sure what 'it' had been. She had asked him whether he thought he should have those things above her, and why he always made her feel so guilty for working longer hours when she was helping people.

'I thought you liked your space,' she had spat in his direction. 'You ditched me often enough!' 'I do,' he'd replied. 'And I'm about to get a whole lot more of it.'

Then he had left. She remembered the bulge in the back of his pants, his wallet, but he'd had nothing else with him. Not even a jumper in case he got cold in his jeans and t-shirt. It was summer, but what if he did get cold? What would he do?

Scully let tears stick to her closed eyelashes as his parting words echoed at the forefront of her mind. 'And I'm about to get a whole lot more of it.' Space. Time. Away from her. Away from their home. Away from their life together.

It had only been a day, but Scully was sure he would have cooled off. She had stayed up all night waiting for him, drifting off only occasionally because she was so tired. A part of her had felt desperate and disgustingly needy for waiting up. He had been the one to walk out on her; she should have felt no obligation to worry. But it was there. It had always been there. She loved him. She was still in love with him.

Mulder had gotten claustrophobic before. He couldn't work; he couldn't regularly show his face in town. He had spent a lot of time readying the house, its true capabilities concealed by its run-down appearance. But nothing had challenged him intellectually. He got bored. He felt caged. He had walked out before for space, just never so much.

Scully had slept for most of the day, her rostered day off. Tiredness had won out over her worry but it had not been a peaceful sleep and though she had somehow managed to lie in bed for ten hours she did not feel rested. She felt more exhausted than she had coming off her shift. She just wanted to be home, even though she was home. But there was one integral ingredient missing, one which ensured home would be wherever he was.

God, she was pathetic. What had happened to strong, Special Agent Dana Scully? Who had never needed anybody to make her feel safe? Who had never needed anybody's love no matter how much she had wanted it?

What a complete lie, her conscience told her harshly. She had always needed people to make her feel safe. She had always needed love. From her father. From her mother. From friends she had abandoned long ago. From the older lovers she had spent time with in her youth, her mentors. From the FBI. From her profession. From Fox Mulder.

She had needed all of that safety and protection. She had needed it to make her strong. To keep her strong. And what of that did she have left? Not her father, not her friends, not her mentors, not the FBI. She barely even had her mother. They spoke on the phone regularly but Maggie never visited. Mulder couldn't fly, and Maggie Scully still lived in Washington DC, a city Mulder was reluctant to return to and one Scully wouldn't let him. It made visiting at Christmas difficult. Scully had gone the last year but come home early.

'Surprise,' she had announced upon walking in the door. Mulder, bless his soul, had been decorating the tree for their 'fake' Christmas planned for her return on New Year's Day.

'What are you doing?' He had looked stunned, she remembered. She had beamed at him, so happy to be home despite the fact it was only the twenty-seventh. She had shrugged and he had frowned, waiting for her to reply, curious as to her explanation. Though upon reflection Scully had seen in his eyes that he thought he already knew.

'Wasn't the same,' she had answered, shrugging casually as though her returning just one day after Christmas officially ended, when she was meant to stay until New Year's, was no big deal. Her smile had disappeared in an effort to seem nonchalant and Mulder had humoured her; he hadn't smiled. He had held out his hand in a silent invitation and led her to their tree, where he proceeded to give her his presents. Only once all the wrapping was torn did he hold her and tell her how happy he was she was there. In his own way.

Merry Christmas Dana, he had whispered in her ear. She had felt a tear on her neck and the strength of his arms. She had felt his vulnerability seeping into her and she had hugged him back as tightly as her petite frame would allow, nuzzling him affectionately, silently replying that she was happy also, that they were safe and not alone. Their greatest fear was loneliness, and Mulder had no other family to be with. Just her.

Perhaps her vulnerability at his absence was not so surprising, she reasoned. Perhaps she had nothing to feel ashamed about in worrying for him. He felt it too. He had felt it that Christmas. He had felt it at other times in their life when they had been apart or in danger, or just feeling particularly nostalgic. Her vulnerability was his vulnerability.

So did that mean this aching, intense fear she had for his safety was a reflection of his intense fear for hers? How could that be? How could he be afraid for her at that moment when she was the one safely at home, staring at the stars and wondering where HE was?

But Scully couldn't shake it. She could not let herself fall asleep again. She felt sick but surely Mulder was safe. He was a grown man. He was middle-aged. He was independent and intelligent and hardy, and he would come back. Right?

She turned from the window, frowning and shutting her eyes. She rubbed the bridge of her nose to dislodge the headache forming. There was suddenly only one thought in her mind and it was beginning to hurt her brain as well as her heart.

His vulnerability is mine, and mine is his. So is it my fear for him I feel, or his for me?

No, it was ridiculous. She was acting like a housewife from the fifties whose husband was home late from work. Mulder had always run off, most of the time chasing a hypothesis. There was no need to worry. He loved her. She should go to bed, and in the morning he would come back. There was no need to panic. In fact, he was probably in a panic having forgotten his mobile phone. Perhaps he did want to contact her.

To warn you.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she hissed aloud, shaking her head. She HAD to get some sleep. Her mind was beginning to short-circuit. Her rostered day off had done little to allow her any recovery time and she was scheduled for hospital rounds at seven the next morning.

Scully stared forlornly at the bed. She had gotten into it but barely lay there five minutes before standing. It felt strange without him there just as it had during the day, but she felt it more keenly at night; the oddity of not having him beside her. They had not been apart a night since they had run from the prison. It was a perhaps pathetic but nonetheless true fact of her present life. She was 'used' to him.

Maybe she would take something, she decided with a little shake of her head, her long, orange hair brushing her bare upper arms and back. She hated sleeping pills but the doctor inside her knew she was driving herself mad, and she was in no fit shape to practice medicine in little over eight hours.

Damn you Mulder, she thought in a sudden fit of anger. Look what you do to me. And even worse, I let you.

Still turned from the window, Scully heard the ringing first. It was soft, and then it got gradually louder until the high-pitched squeal was so great it drove her to her knees on the floorboards. It was so loud she thought her hearing may be lost, but it only seemed to get louder. Her brain pounded. What is this, she wondered? Some sort of super-sonic migraine she had never experienced before? Brought on by exhaustion? Madness? Fear?

The silent wave of whiteness that followed answered her question. The light that seared her shut eyelids was bright but without the heat of an explosion. It was as though a giant theatrical spotlight had rolled across the earth, illuminating everything that she suddenly knew was about to be destroyed. Scully covered her face with her hands and crouched forward, her head buried in her lap, her long hair enclosing her. The light, the noise, the fear she had felt all made sense in that moment as she contemplated the end of hearing, the end of sight, the end of life. For the experience was not just her own, it couldn't be.

It was everyone's. They had come.


	2. Chapter 2

One

[This story begins very much from Scully's POV but this will change in the second chapter :-D]

 _Arlington National Cemetery_

 _Washington DC – July 2005_

The wind was unusually calm. Most days since she had left it had been strong and hot. A desert wind, she reminded herself, for that was where she was, and it was her own private Hell. Yet with her eyes shut, Scully could let herself remember. She was sitting, not on sand, but on a grassy patch underneath a sprawling, ancient tree. In front of her was a green, sloping landscape, tended to with reverence and perfection. Each headstone stood identical to its neighbours, lined up in neat rows that traversed the slope and seemed never-ending. A never-ending representation of those who had come before.

And for what, Dana Scully thought as she opened her blue eyes and took in the reality. There was no grass, and all the trees had gone away. Sometimes she spotted the remainder of a trunk, but they were all dead from the inside. If she touched it, it would crumble. Life had been sucked away from all around her.

A city that was once called home was in ruin. Government buildings had been crushed. The water in and around the monuments that had also toppled had dried up. The sky above her was blue and there were not even any clouds to offer shade; clouds would mean there was moisture in the air, and there wasn't.

The desert in front of her was dry, hot and sandy. She was dressed in long, brown cotton pants and a loose white shirt over a dirty white singlet top. Usually she wore a hat but since it was late afternoon she had taken it off. Her waist-length, orange hair was thick and wavy in the heat and without her straightener she kept it pulled back in a rough ponytail. She brushed it before she slept at night, to remove as much of the sand and as many of the knots as she could, but she had a feeling she never achieved very much.

At least I have a brush, she thought, glancing at the backpack beside her. It was bright orange with black strapping, and she remembered when they had bought them. Mulder's was purple, and he had made some crack about the colour purple being associated with sexual frustration. She had rolled her eyes at him and pointed out the orange. 'Ooh,' he had teased. 'We're all about the hot colours today, aren't we Scully?' She had laughed.

Scully missed laughing. She allowed herself to smile wistfully as memories came back to her, but she missed the way she let herself giggle when Mulder said something particularly amusing. She missed his own mischievous giggle when he had a particularly dirty thought. She missed how it felt to smile when he smiled at her. She hadn't let herself smile very often in her youth, and in hindsight she should have.

Because my life is over, she reasoned sadly, staring at the sand around her sandals as tears pricked at her eyes. Scully had made her peace with death more than once, many times in fact, but the acute knowledge still filled her with great pain. Pain because this time it was true. Her life was over.

Scully had not seen another living person in more than a week. She had survived whatever had killed them all and was the only one left. The logical side of her brain told her there had to be others, that surely other people had been underground when it happened or shortly afterwards. But so what if there was? Even if they found each other, what were they going to do? Wander the desert until they all died?

It was better to end it on her own terms. She had always believed that, and she had the means to do just that in the medical box in her pack. They had packed the bags shortly after settling and hidden them where she had hidden, and in hers she held the means to take their lives. Mulder had insisted. 'There are some possibilities in the realm of imagination I know neither of us wants to live with,' Mulder had admitted softly.

So Mulder, Scully spoke silently. Was this within your realm of imagination?

He was gone, he had to be. She had realised that almost immediately upon reaching the underground bunker, upon being reminded of everything he had achieved. She had not been the only one working for 'them'. Hadn't he seen that? He had made them a haven and it had saved her.

But without him there, she had nobody. Not even a bird flapped its wings in the sky. All life was gone. The current state of things had never been within her realm of imagination, but she had always been in a position to imagine Mulder's death. He had come so close so many times. She had even buried him once. She knew that reality so well that the pain she felt at his loss was much worse than any emotion brought on by something she never could have envisaged.

The thought that she had been left alone in a wasteland that had once been the shining capital of the United States left her confused and uneasy. But the thought of Mulder's death at a time and place unknown, level of suffering unknown, and the knowledge she had not been there and there had been nothing she could do? That was the thought that had her glancing towards the bottom of her bag and the supplies she knew she carried.

My life is over.

The place she had chosen to meet her end was no longer accessible, and she now faced a dilemma. She had wanted to die close to Mulder when she made that decision. She had come to Arlington, or where she remembered it to be, seeking some sort of connection. She had seen servicemen and women buried there in the past. She had witnessed the burial of friends there. But the land was desecrated. It was a disgrace. She could not lie down and take her final breaths on the slope of a hill that had been completely gutted by those that had come.

Scully had always known there was a good possibility that the aliens would come, that their world would end. It was why they had the bunker, and the packs, and the suicide pills. She and Mulder had known the truth. But she had been completely unprepared for its reality. They had come, but they had come seven years before schedule. Why? She had no idea. She did not know anything about the pathogen which had killed everyone. She had no basis for understanding the science and no means to take or test any samples. She had no motivation to fight or search for the truth. What truth?

The base truth of her life was that if she was alone she was without power. Scully had always possessed a power within herself, a confidence, a wit, an intelligence that kept her level and strong. But to impress the world with that power she had always been empowered, either by an FBI badge or her medical degree. She had been empowered by Mulder. How many times had she thought about giving up their quest, of leaving him? How many times had he convinced her that the only way they could survive was if they worked together?

And they didn't even do that anymore. She might have been a scientist and a doctor, but her specialty was the natural earth, the human race. Those were not elements of the future of the planet she resided in. Without the use of that degree, without the FBI, and without Mulder, she was empowered only by what was left of her self-respect. And thanks to the regret that still coursed through her veins at allowing Mulder to walk out that day, the day before they came, she had little self-respect left to help her.

The will to live had faded and was now stalled with indecision and the insane notion she clung to that whatever she did, however she did it, it would have to be perfect. It would have to mean more than taking her life. It could not be cheap or tragic. It could not be sad. Mulder had insisted she not feel sad or guilty about one day being in the position to end his suffering and then hers, or vice versa. He had tried to promise her he would be okay with killing her. She hadn't quite believed him, because she certainly was not okay.

She did not want to be alone, but she also did not want to die alone.

Tears stung her eyes as she shut them against the sight of the desecrated graveyard. Her father had been entitled to burial there, but he had chosen otherwise. For maybe the first time in her life, Scully was grateful for his choice. She was grateful his body was not among the disturbed dead surrounding her.

Night was fast approaching and Scully knew she had to keep moving, but after more than a week walking and psyching herself up to meet her end only to discover what she had hoped would be impossible she was spent, and just wanted to sit a little longer. That is, if the wind held off. She did not want to be embroiled in a sandstorm. The sand was everywhere. It felt like sand as she knew it, of the earth, but perhaps it wasn't. She had no way of knowing. It could have been toxic and there would have been nothing she could do. She was covered in it. It was stuck under her nails, in her hair, on her legs and arms and in her sandals. It coated the bottoms of her feet, making walking painful. She had several blisters she was tending to.

She really had to move, she repeated to herself. There were still plenty of homes untouched, and she hoped to find her mother's amongst them. Scully wasn't sure why homes had been left standing, why the resources within those homes had been unwanted or ignored by those who had taken everything else from her. The homes left standing might have housed bodies like large catacombs but at least there were some comforts there; food, water, shelter.

She stared up at the blue sky and sighed, attempting to banish thoughts of the desert. Instead she soaked up the silence, pretending she'd had a stressful day at work amidst bustling, impatient federal agents, pretending the silence was welcome and comforting. She was on her way home, to take a bubble bath and read on the couch. It almost worked, but as soon as she allowed her eyes to drift shut against the hot rays of the sun she saw his face. Mulder came to her so often these days, she pondered. Snippets of their past together came back to her almost constantly, as though he was speaking to her, as though he was helping her remember him before she died. It was painful but she didn't want to forget him, so she let herself remember.

They were sitting on his couch. That awful couch he more often than not called a bed. Popcorn, Scully thought. She remembered popcorn. They had watched a stupid movie, and she had turned to him to announce it was time for her to go home. She had stared at him in shock, for he had been asleep and to see him that way in his own home was still novel and oddly domestic. It spoke of a trust between them that had only been growing deeper. Strange, she had thought. She had not known their trust in one another could get much greater than it already had been, but it had, for he had rarely fallen asleep beside her. His plump lips were parted and his eyelashes fluttered as he dreamt. He was reclined back against the couch with his head tilted to the side, and Scully remembered the way her affectionate heart had quickened in her chest.

Reach forward, she had thought. He never sleeps. Just reach forward and touch his face. Wake him. Say goodnight. Tell him you love him.

'Mulder,' she had whispered. 'Fox, sweetheart.' He had opened his brown eyes, brown but filled with so many other emotional shades of green and grey, and stared at her.

'Peace on earth Scully,' he had mumbled. She had frowned, shaking her head a little.

'Mulder wake up,' she had urged. 'Wake up, it's late. You should go to bed.'

'Come with me.' Scully had gasped. Their relationship had moved beyond that of working partners, beyond that of best friends, but she still had not been comfortable in thinking of him as her lover. They loved each other in a way she had never experienced before, but the label of lover still made her nervous. It was not the term. It was the man. They hadn't properly spoken about the times she had stayed, the times they had been intimate. All two times, she thought dryly.

The first had 'just happened' because she had gone to his bed in the night, and she had left in the morning as though she hadn't. And the second? They had both been drunk after that disastrous movie premiere. It had almost cancelled out the sentiment of the first time, and had left her confused. What did he think they were? Yes, they had said, 'I love you', they had made love once, but that second time had been sex and nothing more. Right? So what was he asking for now? A casual fuck, or did he want to make love to her again? Truth be told, she wasn't sure she minded either way, but she still wanted to know.

'Mulder, I-'

'I just want to hear you beside me Dana,' he had whispered. 'I don't want you to go.' Tears had stung her eyes as she watched him. No matter her doubts she had not been able to help shaking her head, leaning forward over his strong, broad body, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and support her frame. They would make it work, she promised herself. They could make 'them' work, because she loved him, so they had to.

'Then I won't go Mulder,' she had promised. 'But first, what was your third wish?'

'You bribing me?' he had asked, smirking, sleep clearing from his eyes. She had ducked her head, allowing her chin to nuzzle his chest from side to side. Her eyes had never left his. She had merely smiled, coy but playful and tender. 'I set her free,' he whispered. 'I can only hope I gave her a gift in this life that you gave me, Dana. I set her free.'

Scully let her eyes open as tears trickled down her cheeks, just as they had that night, in his arms on the couch and in bed after they had made love. She had felt so embarrassed at crying, she remembered, but the security and the joy she had felt had been overwhelming. She had realised then that he really had been in love with her and that her confusion had stemmed from an uncertainty as to whether his feelings for her would fade, whether he had only loved her as a partner and best friend but not as a woman. His feelings hadn't faded, he loved her as everything she was to him, and in that moment she had allowed herself to accept that she was happy there.

She had cried in front of him before, in moments where death had nearly taken her or him, when the adrenaline that had surged through her in the struggle to survive left her, when she had looked into his eyes and seen concern and protection and fear. But she had never cried with him as she had that night. It had never been soft or sated, it had never truly been happy. She could see herself blushing as she wept into his chest. She could hear herself apologising to him for being emotional, for spoiling their intimacy. Mulder had merely wrapped her in the blankets and his body and hushed her to sleep.

Scully couldn't remember what it had actually felt like in his arms, and she at once cursed her memory for dragging forth a moment that made her crave his embrace so badly. It had been so long. One glance at her watch told her just how long. Not that it was even her watch, she thought to herself as a swift breeze picked up sand from nearby and swept it up into her face. She quickly ducked her head into her knees and covered herself, her ponytail sweeping upwards and around her. She let the wind and sand encase her. It would pass in time.

Time, she thought again. She remembered the body she had pulled the watch off; a woman in a car amidst a highway of cars. What had been left of her arm had been outstretched right in Scully's path, as though the analogue timepiece was being delivered to her in the wake of all digital technology being rendered useless.

Useless.

It was frightening to think of all the technologies she had come to depend on in her life, now obsolete. There was no electricity. When it got dark at night, it got DARK. There were no phones, no traffic, no fridges, no ATMs, no money, and, what was the other, more important thing? Oh, oh yeah, she huffed, no goddamn people!

She felt like the only person left in the world, and Scully suddenly knew exactly why her memory had recalled that particular moment from their past, and how Mulder had felt after wishing for peace on earth. She knew exactly why he had held onto her so tightly that night, why he had wrapped her so carefully in the blankets as she cried. She had been crying because he loved her, but he had held her because he was afraid he would lose her.

And he had.

Scully had always fought with him, but never against him. So she had let him go. She had made her displeasure known but she had let him go. On foot. With no supplies.

And they had come. Scully shut her eyes, trying to block the memories, trying to stop their assault on her. Didn't they come to her enough already? As much as she tried she could not forget the sound, the flash. The closest thing she had to an analogy was from her childhood, and the times when her older brothers had blown their father's military whistle in her ear. The sound had been that, times a thousand. And yet at the same time it had been deathly quiet, as endings often were. She had been alone in a house big enough for ten, not two, and the neighbouring houses were miles away.

It was as though they had come back just for her.

Scully pulled herself into a ball in repetition of the same actions she had taken that night, beside her bed, as the flash overcame her. It had illuminated everything even behind her shut eyelids, and for a few minutes after it faded Scully thought she was blind. Once she had been brave enough to pull from her crouch, remnants of the flash still blocking her vision, she had searched blindly through her bedside drawer, retrieving the small photo album her mother had brought her. Of her family, her childhood, and her son.

On top of the table had been the only framed picture in the entire house of herself and Mulder, and she had taken both and gone straight to the trap door. She had locked it behind her and descended into the bunker. It was located away from the house, and she had travelled underground for several hundred metres before she had gotten to it.

See, she remembered thinking. What did Mulder have to complain about? He had spent years building this safe haven and what if it actually worked? What if it worked and he was too much of an ass to have stuck around and witnessed it for himself? He had protected her. He had protected her again but run away because he hadn't been able to see. He had never been able to believe how much he really meant to her. How grateful she was. How she didn't give a shit about her job or her income as long as he was safe.

Had it really been because she hadn't shown him? Scully didn't think so. Surely not. Dana Scully had only ever been in love with one man. She had loved others, to varying degrees, but not since her youth. Not since before the FBI. Not since before Mulder.

She had hidden in the bunker for over a month, filling pages of paper with retellings and angst-filled fantasies about him coming back for her. He had never come. Two weeks into that month of her life, she had started to fantasise about going to find him instead. Even though he had stormed out, what did it matter? They made each other feel whole. After him, who or what could ever fill those gaps left by his absence? She didn't know.

Before Mulder. After Mulder. Why did she measure her life by that man?

"Because," she whispered, hearing her voice for the first time that day. "Because he was mine." Her voice was low and scratchy from the sand in her mouth and the lack of water. She hated hearing her voice. She hated how she sounded. She did not sound like Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. She sounded like a broken woman, and she was not that. She wasn't. Right?

Was. He was mine. The sound of her own voice hung in her mind, which was suddenly filled with nothing else beside her use of the past tense. This time he was really dead. Really, truly, unable-to-be-recovered dead. There was no body to exhume and magically bring back to life. There were no other doctors to help her, no emergency rooms she could burst into shouting orders about how best to save her partner's life. There was not even enough gauze to pack any wounds should he have sustained them.

She had nothing but her memories and her photographs. Fox Mulder was gone.

The sun was setting behind her and Scully winced as she pulled her legs closer to her body, curling even tighter. Would it be so bad to sleep in the middle of a desecrated cemetery, she wondered? What was the worst that could happen? Zombies? Poltergeists? Satanists?

"I hate you Mulder," she whispered, though the tears in her eyes and the shake of her damaged voice reminded her and him, if he was listening, that she did not mean it.

She should at least do what she had come to do before dark, she told herself, preferring to speak in her head and not out loud. What was the point if nobody could hear her?

Slowly, Scully allowed herself to unfurl. She tried not to think about the sort of shape she was in, but she knew she was blistered and sunburned. She knew the muscles in her back and legs were aching from the constant walking. She knew she had cuts that needed proper attention, but she would not tend to them until she was in another cleaner, safe place for the night.

Scully took a deep breath of fresh air and thanked the Lord that oxygen had not been taken. Yes, the trees and grass were gone, but she could still breathe. She was grateful for that much. She could survive in the desert for as long as anybody else around the world had survived in deserts for centuries. She had lots of shelter and enough water and food for another week, and she would go in search of more the next day. It would tide her over until she found a proper place to end her life.

She bit her bottom lip in pain as she took her first steps down the sandy slope. She was already in the cemetery, she knew. She had technically just been sitting on somebody's grave, or perhaps between a couple, but she thought she had her directions right, and she thought she knew instinctively where to go.

Remnants of the ordered, military graves remained amidst the destruction. Every nutrient had been taken. Every grain of life had been removed. Dana had once stood in Arlington and felt the souls of those who had gone before her, but now there was nothing. They had transformed a Holy, patriotic site of remembrance into a desert. A desert, for fuck's sake!

She pressed her lips together and tried to stay as angry as possible, but it was hard when 'they' weren't even around for her to fight. She did not know whether they had left or whether they were in another country, doing the same thing to it that had been done to her home. Scavenging, destroying, killing.

Scully had hoped to make it out of the city by nightfall, to inspect the suburbs, but as night approached she knew she had sat and remembered for too long. She would need to find somewhere to sleep that night and continue her journey the next day.

Her journey to find answers before she died. To find the truth. To make sure she knew exactly where those who were once important to her were. If they were anywhere at all.

It struck Scully how much that sounded like what Mulder's plan had been, once upon a time. Find his sister; find the truth behind why she was taken and what was done to her, even if it meant finding her body. Wasn't that what she was doing? Wasn't that EXACTLY what she was doing? And without him.

After doing her best not to trip over upturned, broken headstones she thought she was in the right place. She really had nothing but instinct and memory to guide her, and neither was very reliable in her opinion anymore. Still, she allowed herself to sink to her knees and begin dragging her rough, small hands through the grainy sand.

Where had the soil gone, she thought? All that beautiful, rich, brown soil. Vanished.

She remembered scraping the sand with her hands before, in Africa, brushing at the spacecraft, its teachings, its religions and sciences. Her religion and her science. She let a shiver consume her from her tailbone to her neck, her legs and arms tingling as she ducked her head and continued dragging the sand. For proof. For anything.

Please, she thought desperately, just as her hand scratched something sharp and she pulled away with a startled cry. Blood began to seep from the skin on the outside of her thumb and she swore, sticking the digit in her mouth and sucking instinctively to clean it. She had antiseptic in her bag but she had to be careful with it and she had to wait until she was in a more stable environment before she tended to her cuts.

Her other hand reached back down as she pressed her tongue against the cut to try to stop the blood flowing. It was only a flesh wound, but it smarted under the heat of her mouth. Her uninjured hand wrapped around the hard rock she had encountered, and though it was heavy after a few minutes she had lifted it partially out of the sand. She forgot about her cut and used both hands to scrape sand away from the headstone, suddenly panicked.

Melvin.

Scully could have cried, but she didn't. She had been right. She had found them by dumb luck. Mulder's friends. Her friends. The men she had trusted so many times to help her. The men who, in their own dorky way, had meant so much to her, and she had never told them. It hurt to realise their graves were as badly damaged as everyone else's. The other graves had all belonged to military men and women, distinguished public servants, presidents even, and yet here were the remains of three paranoid computer hackers who had worked their way into her life just as Mulder had, who had sacrificed their own lives for the good of their country.

And for what? For THIS?

Scully curled forward into a child's pose and rested her forehead against the half of Frohike's headstone she had uncovered. She missed them. She wanted Frohike to ogle her one more time, or wrap a protective hand around her elbow. She missed Langley's techno-drawl and his long, blonde hair. She missed Byers in his suit with his earnest eyes. She missed the way they had all accepted her as Mulder's 'sceptic' partner, helped her learn, protected her, protected Mulder, and protected their son.

She just wanted someone who knew her, but they were all dead. Most of those she had seen were horribly burned, reminiscent of deaths she had witnessed many years beforehand. Scully hated to picture her loved ones that way. She hated what she would have to do the next day, and for a moment she envied the Lone Gunmen the safety of their coffins underground.

But that's what the pills are for Dana, she reminded herself. Once you know you are truly alone, you can let go and join them.

And she would. 

xxxxxxx 

Scully awoke in the sand, squeezing her eyes shut in defence when she realised her face was turned towards it. She sat up with a start and began brushing herself off. She looked around for her backpack frantically before realising it was in front of her. She had wrapped herself around it in her sleep. She sighed. It sure didn't look like Mulder, she thought sadly, reaching out to run her hand over the orange and black synthetic material. But it did remind her of him.

Without bothering with a brush she undid her ponytail and ran her fingers through her knotted, sandy hair before tying it up once more. Once she was done, she looked around to get her bearings. Sometimes she would wake up and not remember where she was or how she came to be there. Some days her grief directed her to resting places.

But as the sun rose and the sky turned from black to navy she remembered exactly where she was. Glancing down at where her hand was bracing her weight against the sand, Frohike's headstone glared back at her. She checked her watch; four thirty in the morning. It was a good a time as any to start walking, she decided. Before it got too hot.

She sat up with more purpose and reached for the backpack, retrieving her second last bottle of water and taking a large sip. She was afraid to drink more than a third of the small bottle but she was desperately in need of water, the back of her head thumping in a familiar morning ritual consisting of nausea and dehydration headaches. She groaned, shutting her eyes as the cool liquid sped down her throat. It did not feel like enough, and as a doctor she knew it wasn't, but it would have to do.

When she got to her mother's, she would raid the fridge. It would be like old times.

Scully knelt on the sand in front of the graves she had discovered, and let her hand rest on the sand above each one, silently thanking them for all their help and protection over the years, praying for their safety, praying for her own safety as she prepared to face her end. She knew that somewhere, along the way, they would be there. Somewhere they knew.

It felt silly to say anything out loud, and Scully debated whether or not she needed to. No, she finally decided. It would be better to conserve her strength, and she had so little physical and emotional strength left. Speaking to nobody was just too much effort.

xxxxxx 

It was nearly dark by the time Scully got to the house. It was untouched. The whole street was untouched. Except of course for the complete absence of life. Painted wood and bricks might not have been useful, but the street looked like a development site. Her mother's front garden, which she had been so proud of and which usually bloomed with colour in the early summer, was replaced by sand. Dry, dusty, silicon.

Scully walked around the back of the house. She knew she was going to have to break in and she knew doing so would make some noise. She had weapons but she did not want to attract any wild animals or vagrants. Not that she had seen any of either since they had come.

The glass in the back window broke under the force of her elbow and Scully reached in to unlock the door, pushing it open before carefully removing her arm from around the jagged shards she had been too preoccupied to first clear. Sweat dribbled down her back as she stepped over the threshold. Her heart beat fiercely in her chest and not for the first time she wondered whether a fatal heart attack would be more favourable than the temporary but debilitating anxiety attack she felt coming on.

Be neutral, she tried to tell herself. Don't panic. Be strong. Look in the kitchen first.

Using water from melted ice cubes stored in the defrosted freezer to wash her face was something Dana was used to. It was not the first time she had broken into somebody's house. The water was cool and untainted, preserved since before the invasion. It felt fresh against her skin and in the comfort that this had been her own home for so many years she allowed herself to use some soap to clear the sand and grime from her face as well.

Most of what was in the fridge had expired, and Dana knew then for sure her mother was dead. She retrieved the stale bread and put it on the bench behind her; nearly a full loaf. There was not too much else in the fridge she could take, but that was enough. In the pantry she collected crackers and cans of tuna, tomatoes and the peaches she knew her mother had always kept for her nephew to have with ice cream after Sunday lunches. There was an unopened packet of chocolate as well as two full jars of jam and honey.

Scully could not help her happy smile as she gathered it all on the bench and stared at it.

God bless you mom, she thought, tears stinging her eyes painfully as she took one last look at the pantry. This was where she was at home, she realised. Mulder might not have been there, but this was second best. It would do. Her last meal was going to be a good one.

She lifted her backpack onto the counter beside her collection of food and opened it, trying to work out how to cram all her food into the remaining space, before a thought stopped her in her tracks. Her clothes.

Scully and her mother were basically the same size. They wore the same size clothes and shoes, though Maggie had been slightly taller. Scully left the kitchen, abandoning her pack for the time being, and bolted up the stairs. She ignored the blisters on her feet and pushed through her mother's bedroom door. She was eager to get to the closet. She wanted to look nice when she killed herself, after all. Not like some homeless woman who had stolen her clothes from another homeless woman.

Or another dead person's closet, she added dryly.

She was halfway to the wardrobe before she caught sight of the reflection in the large mirror above her mother's duchess. It was not her own appearance that had caught her eyes, and her heart broke instantly at the realisation of her basic human selfishness and her ignorance as to what she would really find in her mother's room.

There was a reason you started in the kitchen, dumbass, a voice told her. Scully licked her lips, willing herself to turn around. She felt afraid, even though she knew what she would see thanks to the reflection in the mirror. Still, she needed to see it. She wanted to. She turned slowly on her heel, her head lowered, her ponytail quivering against her neck as her body began to shake.

The covers were pulled up over the body, and Scully could see the outline of legs and torso beneath the thin blankets. Her mother's body was pulled up into a tight foetal position, a reaction to intense heat or perhaps some sort of infection. There was no hair, no skin, no eyes; nothing to prove to Scully that the charred skeletal remains in the bed was her mother.

But nobody else had slept in that bed since her father had died thirteen years previously. Her mother had never dated another man as far as she knew, had never let herself fall for another, had thrown herself into her family and their lives, committing to the people she loved the most.

And now she was carbon, Scully realised. She had seen so many bodies in a similar state that the gruesome nature of the death didn't bother her. She thought it had been quick, but perhaps that was only what she wanted to believe. Everything around the bodies was always untouched, as though death had come specifically for and touched only them. Scully had seen death once, but she did not think this was the same. Death rarely needed so many at once.

Scully felt suddenly guilty as she let her fingers trail over the end of the bedspread, her eyes not leaving the corpse of the woman who had given her life, who had helped her through so much pain and provided her with so much love. And all Scully really wanted was her clothes.

"I'm sorry mom," she whispered, allowing herself to speak, again for the first time that day. "I love you. Sleep tight."


	3. Chapter 3

Two

[Another pretty heavy chapter, they're not all like this, and introducing Skinner!]

 _Scully Residence_

 _Washington DC – July 2005_

Scully sat at a stool in the large kitchen and looked at the sand covering the backyard right up to the fence. She had contemplated wrapping her mother's body in sheets and burying it in the yard, giving her a proper burial as her mother would have wanted it, saying some prayers, but it didn't feel right. There was no soil, the carbon had been stripped from the ground and yet that was exactly what her mother had been reduced to.

It wasn't right.

So she would stay for all eternity asleep in her bed, and as Scully stared at the pile of fresh clothes and nibbled on the corner of a cracker her stomach was doing flip-flops in grief. She had battled through the feelings before, for Mulder and William, and she knew forcing herself to eat was useless; she was just going to throw it up. Still, sometimes throwing up when she felt that way gave her a sense of comfort.

Scully shook her head and sighed, realising how crazy she sounded. She had never made herself sick on purpose, and she was not about to start, but there had been times when her body had overruled her, even when she had been pregnant with William and Mulder had been missing and then apparently dead and buried. At least then she had been able to put it down to morning sickness, when she knew it had been more.

Scully was dressed in her mother's dark jeans and a white t-shirt. She had used a bucket to collect what little water was left in the pipes and washed in the ensuite. She had even managed to wash her hair somewhat thoroughly, though the damp strands combed straight still felt soapy and sandy under her fingers.

Scully knew she would have to spend the night in her mother's home with her mother's body, but frankly she welcomed the company. At least it was a familiar setting. Nothing worked. There was no television, no microwave, no fridge, and no music. But there were books, so many books that she was contemplating whether she had enough water to allow her to read them all before she died. And there was the piano, but Scully was too afraid to approach it. It would make too much noise.

Still, it was there, and it was calling to her just as her big sister Melissa had always begged her to play duets. Thank God Missy died so long ago, she thought. Thank Christ.

Scully abandoned the cracker which she had barely finished and rested her forehead on the cool bench top. She raked in a sudden, sharp breath and spun around on the chair, leaning over the sink as nausea swept over her and forced her stomach to wrench. Tears trickled from her eyes as she threw up what little she had eaten as well as a fair portion of valuable water.

What a waste, she thought glumly as she regained her composure and brushed her hands over her flushed cheeks. God, what a mess. She was such an unsightly mess. She hated it.

She stood and walked into the living room, staring at the photos on the mantelpiece. Her mother still had a picture of her and William, even though she had given the boy away three years beforehand. Scully had photos of her son with her, but she rarely looked at them. It was too heartbreaking to know she had not been able to protect her baby boy, and in hindsight to know that if they had survived, he might still be alive with her.

Stop it, she told herself. This isn't the life you would have wanted for him anyway.

No, she agreed. No, it was not the life that anybody should have to lead, let alone a child.

There was a small part of Scully that wondered what would happen if she did not kill herself and kept walking, if one day she did find somewhere with people. She fantasised about crossing the border into Canada or Mexico and suddenly discovering that life had gone on there, but what if it hadn't? All that wasted time spent wandering the desert, when she could have been entwined with Mulder on some astral plane. In Heaven. In the starlight. With her father and sister, the Lone Gunmen and the rest of her family, all lost to this devastation, this invasion, this 'cause'.

A picture of Scully and Mulder sat beside that of her and William, and she picked it up, smiling sadly. It was the picture that had been by her bed. Her mother had sent her a copy. They had looked so happy to have each other despite all that had been lost by then, she realised. If they hadn't had that stupid fight he would be with her. If he hadn't made such a big deal about her pulling another double shift without letting him know he would be with her. If she hadn't snapped at him about all the times he had ditched her, if she hadn't given him another excuse to do just that, he would be with her.

Scully remembered telling him so many times that they would never leave each other and that he would always be with her, in her heart. She had believed it then, but not anymore.

How could she keep him in her heart when it hurt so much? She had pushed him further down inside her. If she let him free from the part of her soul he now occupied she knew she would scream until she passed out from the pain. She would not let the part of him she held surface from inside her until it was time to take her pills. She wanted him to hold her then but not earlier. She was afraid of splintering her soul, but more importantly, she was afraid that when she did go to let him out, he would be gone.

Screw it, Scully thought, glaring at the piano in the far corner of the room. She crossed the carpet and lifted the lid, staring at the keys. She let her right thumb rest on middle C and the note held its tone and strength. She hiccupped as she fought back tears, and she lifted the lid on the stool to search for something she could attempt; something easy, for she had not touched the instrument in two decades.

Scully was surprised and grateful to discover all her old music still in the chair, a chair she had shared with her sister or mother more than once. She found her beginner's book, and her breath caught as she opened the first page and scanned the contents. Maybe this was not such a good idea, she realised, staring at the simple melodic introduction to the national anthem she had sung so many times in her life.

Then again, who was listening? Who really cared if she broke down halfway and cried?

xxxx 

The next afternoon, Scully stared in her mother's medicine cabinet, delighted to find some old antibiotics sitting towards the back. She swallowed two without water and retrieved a bag of cotton wool balls and antiseptic lotion before returning back downstairs. She hated going upstairs now she had the clothes she needed, and she preferred to stay downstairs as long as possible. The prior night she had spent sleeping on the couch, picturing Mulder in his apartment doing the same as though nothing had changed. Sometimes in her dreams she was curled up with him, safe and warm.

Scully knew the house was holding her prisoner. She was trying to ignore the pills in her bag. She could not bring herself to set foot outside except to take advantage of the sparse, sandy backyard for hygiene's sake. It was not as though she had anywhere else to be. Besides, it was somewhat comforting to believe that before she killed herself, she could spend some time in the house she had missed so desperately in the three years since she and Mulder had fled. She had only been back for three days over the prior year's Christmas. The distance had been an excruciating safety barrier to erect but her mother had understood, or at least that was what she had told her during their weekly phone calls.

Scully sighed, sitting on a chair in the dining room with her medical supplies and rolling up the cuff of her jeans. The gash along her calf was taking longer to heal than she would have liked, thanks mostly to the fact she was walking on it so much. She knew a big part of her plans, hell, her only 'plan' consisted of her poisoning herself, but she was still afraid of infection. The doctor in her still thought her euthanasia plan was ludicrous, and wanted to see her leg healed before she did anything else. Rational Doctor Scully won out over irrational, frightened Dana, and the leg was being seriously treated.

The antibiotic lotion and other first aid supplies she had taken from the chemist she had come across after the accident had been working well, but Scully knew rest and nutrition were also necessary to assist with a fast recovery. There was a thin scab, but the surrounding skin was still very red and tender. She winced as she used the cotton balls to apply more antiseptic.

There were so many other little cuts and bruises on her and she had neither the will nor the materials to tend so carefully to them all, but she cleaned the more serious ones. The cut on her leg had come from tripping over what was left of a tree trunk that had been sticking out of the sand. She had been too preoccupied to notice at the time, nearing DC with every step taken and every sign passed along the side of the highway, hoping for any sign of animal or plant life. The branch had scratched from her ankle nearly up to her knee as she had fallen right over it. She was lucky nothing had been impaled, but the lack of life in the trunk had caused it to crumble under her weight, avoiding worse injury. It had been the first remnant she had seen to prove anything like a tree had ever existed, but just like the people and the land, it had been sucked dry and left for dead.

Kind of like her.

Although she wasn't dead yet, and her explorations over the day had given her the means to continue to procrastinate about ending her life. She had broken into the next door neighbour's house that morning and been pleased to discover bottled water in the garage stacked a few boxes deep. She had recognised that if she was truly suicidal, water would not have been such a welcome sight, but she had pushed that thought away and revelled in her find. She had taken the time to move all the boxes to her own home.

Scully realised she was in some sort of serious shock. She had gotten through the whole day comfortable about the fact her mother's corpse was upstairs. Maybe it was just because she was home, or perhaps she did have an infection in her leg and it was messing with her mind. Or maybe after so much time alone and so much travel and sun-exposure she was simply losing her mind, her composure, and her sanity. As though her conscience was deceiving her into this tender calm until one day she snapped and had a complete breakdown. And if that happened, would she still swallow the pills, or would her mother's knives be a more tempting offer?

Scully lowered her injured leg and got off the stool before she began to analyse her mental health. She needed a distraction, and she again found herself drawn to the piano. She had a few hours of light left before it got dark. She sat down; the lid of the piano already lifted, and played a few tentative scales. The music sounded so very loud, the simple string of notes amidst complete silence deafening and grounding all the same.

It felt good to be 'doing' something, Scully realised. There was a purpose to how her hands were moving. She was not wandering aimlessly. She was playing a scale. A real scale, an exercise invented long before she was born and practised the world over by amateurs and prodigies alike. It was a link to the human world, a world that had been extinguished.

Just one little problem though. God had forgotten to take her with the rest.

That was how she felt when she allowed herself to think about the crucifix around her neck, to ponder her faith and its origins. She believed in God, in whatever spiritual form He or She took. A religion was manmade, but the essence of what she had seen so many times, the realities of her experiences, made it impossible for her to deny the existence of an entity greater than the extraterrestrials that had brought her Catholic religion to earth.

Scully needed to believe God had saved her family and friends. That He, as she had always pictured Him, had spared them pain, had taken their souls to a higher plane.

But what about her soul? What about her body? She had not been spared the grief of losing them. She had not been spared the fear of sitting alone underground for a month waiting for her partner to return, of wondering what had happened, or whether or not it was safe to look above-ground.

Why had He left her? Why had He left her alone when all the signs along the way had made her believe that she couldn't be alone, that she didn't want to be alone? Scully still prayed, but not for anything specific. Generally a simple, 'please God' sufficed. She had no idea what she was pleading for, because she knew in her heart the things she wanted most she could never get back. Mulder, her family, her friends. Her son.

Mulder.

Scully stood and rifled through the piano stool until she found the music she was looking for. Again, it was easy piano she had not played since she had been a girl, but she did not care. She knew the music itself well. She would be able to sight-read it.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she opened to the page she most wanted, anger suddenly rattling in her chest. She took a second to position her hands over the keys, and then she furiously slammed down the chords. Over and over and over, until she did not need to look at the page anymore to know where her hands were meant to be, until her tears prevented her reading any further notes. Over and over and over, loud and painful and excruciatingly lustful, because in that moment she felt the pain those notes evoked in theatre, she WAS that pain, she was that phantom, she was Christine, and Mulder, who had always been her perfect opposite in whatever role she took, had left her.

xxx 

_Washington DC – one week later_

"Hey," Shannon called as she jogged down the front steps of the double storey house and jumped into the sand below. She stared at her waiting companion. "What's with the crap directions?"

Walter Skinner adjusted his glasses and stared at her blankly, the torn page from an old street directory still held in one of his hands.

"We've done this place already," she announced, gesturing behind her. "Place is ransacked."

"No, we haven't," Skinner promised her, running his spare hand over his bald head and readjusting his smudged glasses on his nose. "I'm sure of it. What do you mean ransacked?"

"Well okay, it's not a total disaster, but there's food missing. We must have come here already." He stared at her pointedly.

"Unless somebody else did. Seriously Shannon, we haven't done this street yet." Shannon took a moment to look around and reassess. She stood to her full height, tall and broad. She was attractive and muscular. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her blue eyes surveyed their surroundings. The streets did tend to blend into one another, but her sense of direction was well enough attuned to tell her that they had not in fact canvassed that street before. Skinner was right. Somebody else had.

"Odd," she mumbled to herself. "Oh well, let's try the next one then."

The second house on the abandoned street yielded more questions than answers. Shannon and Skinner stood side by side in their jeans and casual shirts, looking at the white sheet spread out over the couch. It was tented and Shannon stepped forward to lift a corner of the sheet. She was wary of what may be underneath, but suspected nothing harmful. Skinner leant forward and peered at the two bodies revealed, dead just as the others, but respectfully sheathed.

Neither of them had ever covered the dead. There was no further decay expected, no danger to their health, and neither had time for somewhat religious acts of respect.

"I wonder how recently this happened," Skinner pondered, flicking the edge of the sheet with his fingers. Shannon moved silently to the kitchen, not needing to answer. He knew she was wondering the same. The fridge was as rancid as everyone else's, but she immediately noted the absence of bread. There were also no cans in the pantry, and there were gaps amidst rows of boxes, indicating that somebody had perhaps removed a box of cereal or crackers.

Skinner came up behind her.

"Point of entry there," she stated, pointing to the broken screen on the back door. "Looks like it was ripped with a knife of some sort. There's a survivor here, probably in the local area. We should do a quick check. Will Sarah be okay?"

"She won't be able to tell whether it's night so that won't scare her," Skinner reasoned. "I agree we should do a check, but we shouldn't stay too long. We can always come back tomorrow."

"Agreed," Shannon replied with a small smile. She saw the pain in his grey eyes when he spoke of his niece, who they had left at the house in which they had been staying. She was not able to help them search for and collect food and water and other tools, and Shannon knew Skinner hated to leave her every day in her world of darkness.

He went to the pantry and looked for himself, before removing a half-empty box of sugary cereal that had been left. Apparently their survivor was well enough to be fussy. He grabbed a handful and then offered the box to Shannon with somewhat of a teasing smile.

"Want some?" he mumbled, chewing. She merely raised her eyebrows. "Oh come on, supersoldier's gotta eat."

"Bite me," she deadpanned.

xxx 

"I can't believe this," Shannon concluded after the third house they checked on the street displayed the same modus operandi. Skinner had waited on the footpath as she checked the interior and she had returned quickly. "Forced entry through the back, deceased covered in sheets, food taken. No telling how recent."

"There's something about this street Shannon," Skinner stated, surprising her. She looked up, her brown fringe cut straight across her eyebrows. Her fair eyes pierced his, urging him to continue. "It's familiar, somehow. I think I've been here before."

"Before-before?" she asked. Skinner nodded, frowning and turning in his spot as he observed the nearby houses. "You remember why?"

"I never lived here. But somebody I knew, perhaps. How far down does this street go?"

"Couple hundred metres that way," she pointed. "We have quite a lot of houses to go before it's complete. I think you're right; we should come back tomorrow. It's nearly dark."

"No," Skinner disagreed, unsettled by his sudden sense of déjà vu. "If somebody's living here we should help them. I want to keep looking." Shannon nodded and they both removed small torches from their pockets. They would leave what they had found and come back for it on their way, but first they would search.

xxx 

Skinner was staring up and down the street in the fading light half an hour later, taking time to look over each house in his line of sight and remember. Something was familiar about the street, he knew that, but devoid of grass and trees it was hard to remember individual houses.

He tried to think about all the people he had known in his life, as Shannon searched. Skinner had known a lot of people, and he had travelled widely for part of his career. He knew, however, that they were still in DC, and that narrowed the list substantially. He had lived in DC for a long time, but he had visited very few homes.

Think Walter, think, he urged himself. The houses were all upper-middle-class, mostly double-storey, and he could picture all with beautiful green lawns, flowerbeds and large trees. He looked up towards the street lights and imagined it was night, which was not hard considering that it almost was. He tried to remember what street lights had really looked like, how they had cast a certain glow over the bitumen.

Over the snow. Over the ice.

'Don't trip Dana.'

'I'm fine. Thanks for coming with me. I couldn't face-'

'It's okay. I'm happy to have somewhere to be Christmas Eve.'

Oh shit.

"Shit!" he exclaimed. "SHANNON!"

"What?" she asked, appearing in the front door only seconds later, hands on her denim-clad hips. "What's the matter?"

"I know who used to live here," he told her. "I just don't remember what number it was."

"You sure it was this street?" she asked. She watched him turn in his place and then shut his eyes. He was nodding before they opened, and he pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"Positive," he assured her.

"Then we'll keep going," she promised. "There's nothing we can take from here either. It's the same." Walter nodded. He had no hope of finding the resident of the home he remembered alive and well, but he owed it to his old friends, his old life, to make sure the home was at peace.

They walked silently down the street and after another hour determined nobody was living in any of the homes. All the residents had died. Still, Skinner was reluctant to leave. He had not found the house in his memory, but he knew it was there. If not on that street, then the next. A part of him was eager to get home to his niece, but another wanted to see the house. He had seen so little of his old life, and he owed it to Dana.

Stars lit up the night sky and Skinner took the opportunity to enjoy the peaceful calm of the balmy night, despite the uncomfortable sand underfoot. The moon was a thin sliver of crescent silver, and he allowed himself to smile. He wondered how long it would be until the next full moon. When the moon was full, the world did not seem as dark.

Skinner's lip twitched as Shannon reached for his hand, letting the top of her hand rest inside his palm. It closed over her hand and he glanced at her. They smiled at each other. He allowed himself the pleasure of holding her hand, aware she offered him more support than he deserved, aware he enjoyed her touch a little too much. But she knew that already and yet she never pulled away. A part of her liked it too much as well. Too much, and yet not enough. That had always been the problem.

"You remember which house yet?" she asked. Skinner shook his head. "Perhaps we should come back in the daylight," she mumbled. "My eyes are fine, but our torches aren't strong enough for this."

"All these houses look so similar anyway Shannon," he sighed. "I-"

They froze when they heard a loud, angry scream and the sudden breaking of glass. The commotion shattered the silence and echoed down the otherwise empty street. Shannon gripped Skinner's hand a little too tightly, momentarily forgetting her strength, and he pulled quickly from her grasp before she injured him. She realised, but the act of separating was enough to spur them into motion. Her apology was forgotten as they sprinted in the direction of the scream, torchlight bouncing along the uneven layers of sand that covered what had once been road.

The pain and frustration the scream had revealed was human; Skinner knew that without a doubt, and it had come from around the block. Supersoldiers never screamed. Humans screamed, they cried, and they threw breakable objects. They needed outlets for their emotions. They 'had' emotions. Shannon was the anomaly in that regard.

They had really found a survivor, Skinner thought in shock. He had thought there were no others. He had not seen any others. But they had found evidence, proof that somebody apart from them had survived. A woman, he thought. It had been a woman's scream. Incredible.

xxx 

Scully fell to her knees in the dark as her scream became a deep, teeming wail that turned her stomach inside out and pushed it up towards her throat. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she shivered in pain and tears pushed their way past her fair eyelashes. Her heart beat quickly in her chest and she struggled to draw breath.

The doctor in her wrapped one set of fingers around her opposite wrist, checking her pulse. Fast and thready. Her head throbbed and her orange hair was loose and uncombed. She let the strength in her back fail her and fell forward over her lap, her head resting near the damp carpet as she rocked. She was immune to the smell of alcohol permeating the room, or the slivers of glass underneath her hands as they clawed at the ground.

She needed to get away. Why hadn't God saved her too? Why didn't he SAVE her?

The pain was almost unbearable. She had been scared, trying to sleep on the couch. She'd had a nightmare and in a moment of weakness had sought out the comfort of Mulder's embrace, his 'real' embrace, a part of him she had pushed too far down inside her to reach again without some sort of pain. Too much pain, she had reminded herself all too late. It was too much pain. She had shut her eyes and felt him around her and then he had been gone, and he was gone, and she wanted to be gone too. No more waiting. No more sitting around, not for another week, not for another day.

"I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!" she screamed uselessly, pushing her face away from the carpet, opening her blue eyes and staring at the wall at which she had thrown the heavy bottle of wine. Her cries were tortured and hot, salty tears trickled over the curves of her cheekbones towards her lips and chin. She covered her face with her hands, continuing to repeat her hatred aloud into her palms, feeling them quickly dampen with sweat and tears.

She looked up and kept rocking, wrapping her arms around herself. Her own touch was a poor substitute for what she had conjured up just minutes ago. It had been so real. So intense. Her vision was blurry and she sobbed as she struggled through the pain. It was so dark. There was no light. But she could see the glass on the carpet just in front of her. A glistening, thick chunk. Big enough to really hold onto, sharp enough to do damage fast.

Scully did not recognise her own voice as she continued to whimper and cry, rocking further forward each time, trying to get the courage to let go of her stomach and reach for the glass.

"Please," she whispered through tears, forcing her right hand to stretch forward. Her fingers skirted the cool metal and she lifted it from its resting place. She could see it in the dark, silver and sharp like a knife. The pills were the farthest thing from her mind as she stared at the clear, pale white of her shaking left wrist, already held out and ready. She did not remember turning it up that way, she realised. She still felt as though her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle.

But maybe they weren't her arms, she told herself wistfully. Maybe Mulder was still holding her, still there. Maybe he had never left and he was just behind her, his chin on her shoulder, whispering to her that it would be all right. It would be over soon. She was doing the right thing. He wasn't mad. He was proud of her. He wanted to see her again. He would make sure it didn't hurt. In the next life, they could be together. They would be. He knew she was weak, and it was time to let go.

God might not have saved her, but He had given her the power to save herself. He had given her Mulder.

Scully watched as she drew a tiny drop of blood from the top of her wrist. Her head swam with nausea. Jesus, she thought. She had to do this. She was strong enough to do this. Do not pass out Dana, she urged. Do not pass out before you do this.

But it hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt.

Please Mulder, she prayed. Don't let me go.

The arms stayed around her as she dug a little deeper, both hands shaking uncontrollably, as though in seizure. She could not see her veins in the dark but whatever she was doing stung and she tipped her head back and let out another tortured scream. She could feel the blood coming. It was there, it was coming. It was dripping onto the carpet. Scully tingled, she was hot, but it wasn't enough. More, she told herself. Always more. She slid the glass quickly through her skin like a scalpel. It was so close now, she knew. She was so close.

Scully tilted the glass to open the wound and she felt herself nearly freed. Her pulse was strong again. Her blood would be released from its prison inside her to the time of her heavily pounding heart. It was coming. She just had to go deeper, longer. Deeper.

It's coming, Mulder. I'm doing it. Baby, it's coming.

But it hurts it hurts it hurts.

Please stop. Don't do this sweetheart. Please stop.

"I HATE YOU!" she screamed again, this time directing her anger towards the ceiling, where her mother lay just above her, dead, decayed. She dug the glass deeper once again and opened her mouth as pain overwhelmed her, but she did not cry out, her tears silent. The pain wasn't enough. She wanted more. She needed to feel it until it was numb.

She wanted to close her eyes and see Mulder, and her son, and everyone who was lost to her, but she couldn't. Her eyes were forced open and no matter how badly she wanted to close them she couldn't. She needed to see their blood on her hands, red and hot, oozing out of her and over her. It was her fault they were gone. She had pushed them away. She had sent them away to their deaths and now she was left and she was all that was left.

A bright light hit her upturned face and she fell backwards as though she had been hit. Her hand slipped. Her sensitive eyes had been open and as she closed them she saw the flash from long ago, the light from her old home, the way it had come in the night all of a sudden. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear the screech of her father's military whistle blowing in her ear.

Darkness surrounded her as quickly as the light had come, and Scully relaxed into the carpet. Mulder wrapped himself around her and held her safely in the night, cocooning her as her lashes fluttered a final time. I'm done now sweetheart, she told him, snuggling into his side and feeling his lips on her temple, soft and wet and warm.

So real, she thought with a satisfied sigh. He was so real now. She smiled. No more pain.


	4. Chapter 4

Three

Shannon's torch illuminated Scully and Skinner watched as she fell back in shock. She did not move and he hurried forward, afraid she had passed out. He hadn't seen her in so long but it looked like her, though her hair was long and orange, much longer and lighter than he remembered.

Was it really her, he wondered, or somebody who looked a lot like her? He fell to his knees by her body, desperate to identify her as one of his more favoured ex-colleagues. He had been stunned to recognise the house from which he had heard her cries. He had been stunned it was the Scully house. He had fantasised briefly then of finding Maggie or Dana, but he had never expected a petite, middle-aged woman with orange hair and fair skin to really be there.

"Shannon, more light," he ordered, and she quickly covered the distance to him, keeping the light not on the woman's face but on her torso. Blood-stained glass was beside one hand, and the wrist of the other was cut and bleeding. Blood had pooled on the carpet, red and wet, making it soggy. "It's deep but I don't think she hit the vein," Skinner sighed, hugely relieved. The wound was seeping steadily, but it was not pulsing uncontrollably. His large hand wrapped tightly around the tiny, pale wrist, and her blood was hot beneath his fingers. Her pulse was still strong, and he felt it quicken under his firm touch.

Reassured she was not dying, he looked towards her face. He was met with a profile he would never have forgotten. The nose, the chin, the lips were all the same.

It was her. Special Agent Dana Scully, illuminated in the perimeter of Shannon's torch.

"She's passed out," Shannon declared. Skinner knew the woman, she realised. That much was obvious. The woman's breathing was deep and steady but her face was badly flushed. A film of sweat and tears covered her cheeks and upper lip. Shannon frowned as she followed Skinner's gaze and really looked at the woman on the floor. "I think I know her too," she announced suddenly, in a surprised whisper. Skinner turned his head around and looked upwards. "She examined me once. She's a medical doctor. Uh...Scully."

"Yes," he answered, his voice gravelly and his eyes filled with tears of despair. "Dana."

Shannon nodded, her memory better than average since her participation in the supersoldier program.

"She worked with John Doggett," she recalled easily.

"This is her mother's house," he whispered. "I came with her to a Christmas party one year, four, maybe five years ago when she was pregnant. Can you go upstairs and check?" Shannon nodded, and the torch went with her, shrouding the living room again in darkness. Skinner kept his hand wrapped around Scully's wrist as he leant forward and pressed his lips to her temple. "It's okay," he assured her. "You're safe now."

"Mulder," she whispered. Skinner's heart broke. He knew now why she had broken down, and what sane person wouldn't have? Her mother was probably dead upstairs, Skinner had paid enough attention upon entering via the kitchen to notice the large backpack to assume Scully had not been there the whole time, and for some reason she was without Fox Mulder. She was all alone. Skinner could only imagine it was because he was dead.

But why wasn't she?

"Dana," he urged softly. "Agent Scully, wake up now." She whimpered and pressed her lips together, as though in resolute defiance of his orders. "Dana, it's Skinner."

"Let me go," she wept.

"Oh honey," he whispered, just as Shannon returned, again giving him light. "Dana I've got you now. You're not hurt badly. It's all in your mind, beautiful. Can you open your eyes for me? Do you know where you are?"

"Don't go Fox," she mumbled in sleep, her eyelashes fluttering encouragingly. "It hurts." Skinner sighed sadly, reaching up with his free hand to again caress her puffy cheek.

"Wake up Dana," he urged. "You're not well. Mulder's not here. We'll look after you." She opened her eyes, and they were as blue as he remembered. He saw her life in them, and his part in that life, and he knew, beyond a doubt, that it really was her. Skinner saw confusion in her face, but he also saw recognition and pain. She gave her head a little shake and raised it. Her eyes went straight to her wrist and her old boss' bloody hand clamped around it, and she groaned and tilted her head back to the safety of the carpet.

"What did I do?" she asked vaguely.

"You don't remember?" Skinner asked. She shook her head, whimpering freely in pain as he pressed more firmly against her cuts. He was surprised how instantly lucid she was.

"There's a...a medical kit in my backpack in the kitchen," she hissed. "Is it bleeding?"

"Yeah," he whispered. "But it's not gushing. I don't think you hit the vein."

"Need some water, will be able to see for myself," she sighed. "Can you get me...on my feet Skinner I need to...dress it."

"Shannon," he called, not needing to look behind him. He could sense her, and she did not need further instructions. She had the strength of one hundred men, and she wrapped an arm under Scully's shoulders and helped pull her upright, allowing Skinner to concentrate solely on keeping pressure on her wrist. Scully leant into them both heavily as they walked her to the kitchen. Skinner propped Scully up by the sink as Shannon dug through the backpack for first aid and something to wash away the blood. She produced a half-full bottle of water and stood beside Skinner and Scully, pouring it in a slow, steady stream over the wound. Skinner's hand was no longer clasped over it, but his fingers were pressing her wrist together, holding the deep cut closed like a vice.

Scully felt her blood pressure drop as she looked at the cut on her wrist she could not really remember doing. She knew she had, and she had a memory as though she had been there, but not as though she had been 'in' herself at the time. Stupid, she cursed herself. Stupid, stupid, how could you be so stupid Dana? You had pills you idiot! So much pain for no reason; you didn't even get close to the vein.

Even Skinner could see the stark blue of the veins in her wrist under the light and water. The cut was left. Not very far left, but left.

"Need a thick gauze pad and a compression bandage," Scully whispered, looking to the left when she heard somebody open the top of her first aid box. "Gonna need more."

"We have shitloads of first aid back at base," Shannon assured her, watching the way one of Skinner's thick, long arms snaked around Scully's petite torso, holding her upright.

The other was grasping both her hands, holding her fingers towards the ceiling to alleviate the flow of blood. Busy with the bandages, Shannon took a moment to observe Scully. The woman probably needed a drink. She looked unfocussed and her head was lolling into Skinner's shoulder as though she was about to faint again. Her body was shaking. She had not been sleeping, judging by the dark circles under her eyes and her drawn expression. However, she seemed to know what she was doing about her wound, which displayed a consciousness Shannon had not expected. Although perhaps as a doctor she had worked under stress before. Some people were good at dissociating.

xxx 

Once the wound was dressed, Skinner carried Scully back to the living room and laid her out on the couch, covering her with the blanket there and sitting with her. In the kitchen Shannon went through Scully's backpack, not to take anything but merely to inventory. She was curious about how and why Scully had been in her mother's house, how she had survived and what she had with her. Inside the bag Shannon found clothes, food and water, toiletries, photos and medical supplies for abrasions and infections. She had packed a bit of everything, and even had a pair of enclosed shoes tied to the bottom. In preparation for winter, perhaps.

The backpack looked mostly packed, as though she had been preparing to leave, but now Shannon knew she was going nowhere but back with them to base camp.

xxx 

"Is it really you?" Scully asked as she stared up through slit eyes at Skinner. He was leaning over her, stroking her hair and holding her hand. He squeezed her good hand and nodded, before lifting the injured arm and laying it up and along the back of the couch.

"Better keep that up there until the bleeding stops," he whispered. She nodded in agreement but her arm started shaking as soon as he released his grip, so he returned it, letting his hand cup around her elbow and supporting her as she tried to relax. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"A bit over a week," she answered. "I only meant to stay a day. I thought...I thought you were dead."

"Ditto," he teased, watching her manage a tired smile. "Dana we're going to get you back to where we've been staying. Where have you been sleeping here?"

"Here," she whispered. "Can't...go upstairs. Mom's there I...Can you go up and get me...Actually no in my bag, I think I have sedatives. I think I would like one now."

"You want a sedative?" Walter asked, stunned. The Dana Scully he remembered never would have taken a sedative. She certainly would have put up a big fight had anyone ever suggested it. Let alone volunteering? Then again, she had just attempted to take her life, so perhaps he should listen to her as she prescribed her own treatment. "Am I looking for a sedative or a sleeping pill?" he asked, unsure of which she meant.

"Anything," she wept, tears again stinging her eyes. "I just want to pass out."

"Okay, wait here, don't move Dana okay? Don't move." She nodded and whimpered and Skinner stood, hurrying to the kitchen and reaching for the backpack.

"Are we nearly ready to move?" Shannon asked. "Can she walk or am I carrying her?"

"I'll carry her far as I can," Skinner offered. "She's lost a lot of weight. It won't be a problem. She wants a sleeping pill-" He opened the first aid kit for himself and began to survey the packets of pills. "Jesus what did she do, raid a pharmacy?" he asked.

"I'd say so," Shannon replied. "But she's running low on lots of stuff in there, all her creams and bandaids."

"It's all probably on her," Skinner stated obviously, looking through her small but ample collection of prescription-only medications. They all looked mostly untouched, which he was somewhat grateful for. He identified a sleeping pill he was familiar with and looked around for some liquid. "Any water left?" he asked. Shannon reached into Scully's backpack and withdrew a bottle.

"The pantry in here is filled with boxes of the stuff," she informed them. "Looks like she nicked it from somewhere else, but if we can get it all back with us eventually we'll be set. You want me to go and get the supplies from up the road?"

"Ah shit," Skinner sighed. "We've got too much stuff, this won't work."

"We'll take Dana and her pack and whatever else we can carry with us, and we can come back for the rest of the water tomorrow once she's resting."

"I can't leave her," Skinner stated. "She's...She was a friend. She's lost her partner."

"I know," Shannon whispered. "I won't make you. I can come alone." He nodded his thanks and took the water and pills back into the living room.

"Here," he whispered as he perched on the side of the couch. Scully opened her eyes in the dark and stared up at him. "Take this." He helped her sit up and she stared vaguely at the two pills he popped from the foil onto his palm. She reached for them and he was surprised to see her swallow without water, but he held the bottle out anyway. She gripped it with her good though shaking hand and took the tiniest sip he had ever seen. "It's okay," he assured her gently. "Take a longer drink Dana. We have plenty of water."

"Sure?" she asked, drowsy. He nodded, watching her. His heart swelled at her obvious trust in him as she nearly emptied the bottle. Although perhaps she thought she was dreaming and was humouring him and indulging herself simultaneously.

"Good girl," he whispered, unable to help himself as she collapsed back onto the cushions and held the bottle out to him. "I'm going to carry you out of here okay?"

"My pack-"

"Is coming with us. Is everything in it?"

"Um...make sure...my photos. I just want my photos. Mulder-"

"I'll double check and come back for you." She nodded, shutting her eyes and relaxing into the couch as he again stood. His mouth opened slightly when he came face to face of photos on Scully's mother's mantelpiece, of Scully and Mulder, and even one of Scully and William. He lifted them both off the wooden shelf and returned to the kitchen. "She said she had photos," he stated.

"Yes," Shannon answered, handing him the album and frame. "They were right on the top. First thing she unpacks, last thing she packs by the looks of it." Skinner flicked through quickly, making sure the two photographs Margaret Scully had presented in her living room were also in the possession of her daughter. They were, and Skinner handed Scully's copies back, watching Shannon as she safely stored them at the top of the bag, zipping it back up.

"Okay," Skinner announced after a minute's quiet thought. "We're ready. Her mother-"

"Same as the others," Shannon answered quickly. Skinner's face fell but he nodded. He had expected no less. Scully was asleep when he went back to her, and he lifted her easily into his strong arms. He might have been getting on in his fifties, but he had kept in shape and Scully was light. He knew she was dangerously thin, but if they could get her better she could be a great asset to them. Shannon knew that too. Just to have a doctor with them. Helping them. Helping Sarah.

She had to get better.

xxx 

Scully was aware of somebody holding her hand before she opened her eyes. It was a man, she realised. The hand was large and warm, and his thumb was stroking across the thin skin, circling around...tape, she determined. Tape? Her other hand was numb and felt heavy. It was propped up on something soft, maybe a pillow. She was in a bed, on her back, and she got the distinct impression of déjà vu. How many times had she woken up in hospitals all over the country? Often with Mulder or her mother holding her hand.

But this isn't Mulder or mom, she told herself instantly. Mulder is dead. Maggie is dead.

She struggled to open her eyes, suddenly anxious to see where she was and who was with her. She felt safe, but she also knew she had not seen or spoken to actual living people in so long. She could not remember leaving her mother's home. Had she really found-

Scully stopped that train of thought as soon as her blue eyes caught a glimpse of the concerned face staring down at her, and then it all came back.

Skinner. I hate you, I hate you. The glass, the blood. It's coming. Mulder, He left me. It hurts. Deeper. It's okay Dana. Plenty of water. Honey. Wake up. Skinner. Skinner?

"Skinner?" she voiced, her memories bombarding her head, though a part of her realised it did not hurt as badly as she was used to. The throbbing behind her eyes was gone. She felt drugged and she remembered swallowing pills in the dark from his hand.

"I'm here Dana," he assured her gently, squeezing her fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Where am I?" she asked, trying to move her eyes to look around. She turned her head away from Skinner and gasped when she saw an IV hanging beside her head. It was nearly empty and when she looked back at Skinner he was smiling kindly.

"It's in this hand," he told her, again squeezing her fingers. "The cord's stretched across you. We didn't want to put anything in your other with the wrist elevated like it is."

"How'd you get an IV?" she asked. "Hospital?"

"We stole it from a hospital," he told her. "We've got a cupboard of medical supplies for emergencies. Shannon put it in. Not half bad either. Does it feel okay?" Scully hummed.

"Feels okay," she assured him. "How long-"

"You've been asleep a good twelve hours. Are you in any pain?"

"Head's fuzzy but doesn't really hurt," she mumbled. "Wrist is throbbing. Kinda numb."

"I'll get you some painkillers," he offered. "Sit tight."

Scully took the opportunity once he had left to look around. She was in an ordinary bedroom. It was dim because the thick curtains opposite the bed were closed. Sunlight peeked around the edges. The bed itself was large, a double at least. The floral quilt was pulled back and she was covered only in a sheet and thin blanket, but she was neither cold nor hot. There were no photos in the room that she could see, but there was a mirror atop a sparse duchess beside the bed. Skinner had been sitting on a chair covered in his jacket, and her pack was beside him. It comforted her to see it there.

She turned her head to stare at her bandaged wrist, propped up on a mountain of throw pillows. Her whole arm felt heavy, and she let it rotate so she could see the inside of her wrist. No blood had seeped through, and she wondered if it was because the bleeding had stopped not long after she had been bandaged, or if this was the second or third bandage. Perhaps she had even been stitched?

By someone called Shannon. She thought it was a woman, if her memories of the previous night served her correctly, but it might have been a man. Potentially he or she had no medical background and the IV insertion had been a lucky guess.

Heaven help her.

"Here we go," Skinner declared, returning with two tablets and a glass of water. He put a steadying hand on her back as she sat up.

"What are these?" she asked bluntly, not used to having medication fed to her by hand. She liked to know exactly what she was being given.

"Paracetamol with codeine," he stated. She nodded, polishing off the pills and the water quickly and lying back down. Skinner sat back down in the chair and they stared at each other for several minutes in silence. Scully suddenly looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

"I'm an idiot, aren't I," she whispered softly.

"No," he insisted quickly, leaning forward and sliding his palm under hers, linking their fingers. Scully shut her eyes. It felt so good to connect with someone, anyone, and for it to be Walter Skinner... She fought back the tears and listened to his familiar voice. "No you're not an idiot Scully," he promised. "You'll be okay. I understand. Trust me; I understand the loss, what you're feeling. You're entitled to your grief, Dana. We're all grieving here, but we're doing what we can. I can't believe...I can't believe you're alive."

"How did you find me?" she asked, turning back to stare at him curiously.

"We've been systematically searching the houses to stockpile food and other property of use," he replied. "Yesterday we came across your mother's block, and all the houses had been broken into already, all the bodies had been covered with sheets... Did you do that?" Scully nodded. "We realised there must be another survivor and stayed out later than we usually would. We heard you throw what must have been a bottle of wine into the wall. I heard you crying. I knew I remembered the street from somewhere but I didn't put it together until the last minute. I went with you to your mom's Christmas party one year."

"Thank you," Scully whispered, sighing and shaking her head. "How much blood did I lose? I feel really weak. I don't have any energy to move."

"I'm afraid I have no idea," Skinner admitted. "I'm sure it looked worse than what it was, because the bleeding has mostly stopped now. Shannon's changed the dressing and I've seen it; it looks deep but not life threatening. It's weeping; your body's healing slowly."

"You didn't let him stitch it did you?" she asked sceptically. Skinner chuckled.

"Shannon is a woman, Dana. And no, neither of us was game to stitch your wrist. It's wrapped very tightly though, taped and padded and bandaged. If you want to stitch it when you're feeling stronger, go right ahead. You're the doctor here. We don't really know what we're doing. Last night we were only relying on some military training."

"I'm sorry," she apologised, ignoring the urgent shake of his head. "I scared you."

"Well you did that," he conceded with a smile. "I'm just glad it wasn't more serious."

"Who is Shannon?" she asked warily. "A nurse?"

"Shannon McMahon. Do you recognise the name?" Scully frowned and shook her head. "She was part of Bravo Company with John Doggett. She said you examined her once. She's a supersoldier."

"The...the supersoldier?" Scully asked incredulously, remembering the woman, the deformity on the back of her neck, remembering the way she had been following Scully and Monica Reyes one night, remembering the distrust, the disbelief. "Why? How did you survive? What's she doing here?"

"There are three of us here besides you," Skinner explained. "Shannon and my niece Sarah were both with me when the invasion happened. Shannon came to warn me and Sarah had been unexpectedly over for dinner. We stayed underground in the cellar. I was prepared, I knew it was coming." Scully nodded. "What about you?"

"I was practising medicine in Virginia," she whispered. "Mulder and I had a stupid little argument and he stormed out. He didn't come back all the next day, and the next night I was awake worrying about where he might be when it happened. The noise, the light. I…I got underground after rescuing some photos. The pack was already in the bunker. I lived there for I think five weeks before venturing out. Everyone was dead. I decided...to come here to see for myself...I had to see the people I cared about most before I died as well."

"You had been planning to kill yourself?" Skinner asked, his voice soft but probing.

"Without Mulder or my family yes, but not like this," Scully scoffed. "I...I...Mulder and I we had planned ahead in case...so I had some pills. It would be a sleep death. I would just go to sleep. I didn't want to be alone anymore. But I couldn't figure out where I wanted to do it, or how long I should wait, and I guess I kept procrastinating because I really am weak and I...I just couldn't do it. I mean look at this; I should know where my veins are even in the dark! I remember wanting to, but I don't remember, I can't remember what..."

"You were in a state of panic last night," Skinner replied. "You were in the grip of what I can only guess was a severe anxiety attack. You would not have been able to find your veins if they were lit up in neon lights, and I am so very thankful for that, because if we had found you...too late..."

"I know," she whispered, shutting her eyes against the emotions his words conjured. "I'm sorry, again, I...I haven't spoken, or seen, anyone in so, so long. I don't know my voice."

"Well we're here now," he promised her, reaching over to touch her pale cheek. "We're not going to leave you, Dana. We're trying to get in a fit state to move, but it's taking some time, so there's no rush. You're very safe here. We won't go until you're better."

"People are hurt?" she asked, feeling herself drifting back to sleep under the gentle caress of his fingers and voice. "Can I help?"

"When you're feeling stronger," he insisted. "You need to rest. You're very thin and you've lost some blood. Can you tell me how much you weigh, Dana?" She shook her head, blushing. "Well we know you took off with a lot of food, because Shannon has gone back to get what we had to leave behind, but have you been eating any of it?"

"I tried." Her voice was weak as she opened her eyes to stare at him. "I couldn't keep much down," she admitted, blushing with shame and turning her eyes away. "I drove him away, Skinner. He saved me and I killed him." She looked and sounded so young and vulnerable, Skinner realised in tender shock. She had made herself sick with grief, and he could see how emotionally and physically drained she was. He was so sad for her.

"I'm sorry," Skinner whispered, aware she was speaking of Mulder. "We'll all do what we can. You're safe here. Shannon remembers you. She respects you."

"Supersoldier."

"She's on our side," he assured her. "Tired?" Scully nodded, shutting her eyes. "Try and rest. You won't take those pills?" She shook her head. "Good, because we need you here, you understand?" She hummed, nodding. Her top teeth caught on her bottom lip in surprise when he leant over and kissed her temple, again urging her to rest. She slept.

xxx 

In her dream she was lying in bed beside Mulder. They were both young, in their early twenties and on a small bed in what looked like a college dorm. Old grey paint, faded basketball posters, a little desk stacked high with dusty books. It was a dream that had never happened because they had not known each other at that time in their lives, but Scully enjoyed it. Maybe they had known each other that young in another life, or maybe she was foreseeing the next. She rolled towards him fully clothed on the bed, her hair long, wavy and red. She propped herself up on the mattress and smiled down at him, and he reached up to touch her cheek.

'I like your freckles,' he mumbled, his eyes and voice sleepy. She hummed and leant down over his chest for a kiss, allowing him to pull her against his warm body as it moved beneath hers. Their lips met and he allowed her tongue entrance to his mouth. One of her legs edged over his hips and he reached down with one hand, wrapping his fingers around her thigh to pull her across him.

Then it all fell away. She was enveloped not by Mulder but by sand and it was drawing her in just as he had been. His tongue became sand and it began to fill her. It was alive underneath her and its pulse drove the hot, dry grains deeper into her nose and mouth. It was suffocating. Her lungs ached and she started to black out. She struggled in an effort to escape but it held her, her thigh, her back, and then she stopped breathing.

Scully sat up in the dark with a start, choking though nothing was really inside her. She doubled over and coughed loudly a few times, forcing her throat to clear. Somewhere in her mind she realised her IV had been removed. Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks as she pulled her legs up under the blankets and curled in on herself. She held her body close, making sure nobody and nothing else touched it.

Mulder had turned into the sand, she analysed. He had betrayed her. He had left her.

There were three soft knocks on her closed door and Scully attempted to compose herself quickly, though she did not look up as it opened.

"Doctor Scully, are you all right?" Shannon asked. "Walter's asleep, do you want me to-"

"No, no, let him sleep," she insisted quickly against her knees. "What time is it?"

"I was actually going to ask if you wanted me to sit with you for a bit." Scully looked up in shock, her mouth open. Shannon had a weak torch in her hands and directed it towards the bed, though thankfully not in her face. "Sleep is a luxury for me, not a biological necessity. I wouldn't mind the company, and it's midnight. You slept all day."

"O-okay," Scully stammered. Shannon smiled and stepped into the room, shutting the door.

"So our voices don't carry," she whispered, noticing the hesitation in Scully's eyes. "You look different to what I remember," she began, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Scully pushed herself back to sit against the headboard, her knees still pulled up defensively. She had only met Shannon once, but Scully knew she had saved John's life. Shannon had come to help them then, but she was still a relative stranger to Scully.

"You look the same," she replied. "Can I ask something?"

"If it helps distract you from your nightmare, sure," Shannon agreed.

"What are you doing here? What happened to all the other supersoldiers and why did you help Skinner?"

"The supersoldiers you remember, those that are what I am, have become the footmen of the aliens which have invaded this world. I'm here because I'm not like the others. I'm here because I care about Walter, and that's also why I helped him. After you and Mulder ran, I approached him and kept him informed. He had hoped to warn you someday, but there was no time. I found out only soon enough to get to him, to make sure he was safe."

"And his niece? Who is she?"

"Her name is Sarah. She's asleep down the hall. She's twenty-five. I arrived late and I hadn't expected anybody else to be there. I only shielded Walter from the light. She's blind. How are you not blind?"

"I don't know," Scully whispered. "I didn't know people had gone blind. I remember closing my eyes and seeing my room even though they were closed, as though everything was lit up and my eyelids were just gone, and afterwards the image stayed with me even though it was dark. I thought for a second I was blind, but then my vision cleared and I grabbed what I could and got underground. Where I stayed for about a month before I first went outside."

"How did you know to stay down that long?"

"I don't know," Scully shrugged. "I just felt I had to be cautious. That was how long I decided. It was instinct. Why, was that okay?"

"If you were exposed to the virus you would be ash by now," Shannon pointed out.

"Are there any other survivors?" Scully asked curiously, unable to hide the hope in her voice.

"Yes, but not anywhere near here. We are collecting resources to help us move south. Only some countries have been mined like this. I do know that south of the border there are places where you, Walter and Sarah will be able to survive."

"What if I don't want to?" she asked, biting her bottom lip and staring at Shannon. "What if I don't want to have to start over? What if I don't want to live the rest of my life as a slave?"

"I don't know if that's what will happen," Shannon assured Scully. "And I think if you really did not want to survive you would have killed yourself long ago and not stolen enough water to keep you, Walter and Sarah alive for many months."

"What about you?"

"A sip goes a long way for me," she pointed out gently. "So what were you dreaming about?"

"The sand," Scully sighed. "Mulder. Do you dream?"

"Yes I do. The new ones don't, but as you know, as one of the prototypes they never got me quite right. I dream human dreams, mostly about things from my past. But I don't have nightmares. I have no fear. I don't remember what bad dreams are like."

"You're lucky," Scully whispered.

"I'm sorry about Mulder," Shannon mumbled. "I really am. You might think I can feel nothing but I do still hate them for what they did to me, and I do still feel the need to protect my friends, and warn them, and I feel sadness at what has been done here."

"I believe you. Are, are you and Skinner together?" she asked suddenly. Shannon smirked. "You don't have to elaborate it's just that when he mentioned you-"

"It's okay," she promised. "We're not together in the traditional sense. I mean we were, for a while, but since this...I don't know. I don't think I can feel love anymore. I honestly hadn't tried until a few years ago when Walter and I...I don't know. He understands. I care about him, I can still feel pleasure but love I...It's not like that. It never can be."

"Does he love you?" Scully asked softly.

"I think so," Shannon replied with a serious frown. "It's complicated. I wish it wasn't. If I was still a normal person I think I would love him, I think that's the residual emotion I do feel, but uh, we're discreet. Out here we're just companions."

"I understand," Scully whispered. "Thank you."

"No need," Shannon assured her. "How is your wrist?"

"Sore. I haven't looked at it yet but it feels secure. Thank you for bandaging it so well."

"Have you been eating?" Scully shook her head and Shannon chuckled. "Well that's going to change in the morning. We're not going anywhere until everyone is fit for a long journey. We've been at this food collecting business for a couple of weeks, and you should see the carriage we've managed to construct to carry it all."

"How?" Scully asked. "Won't it be heavy?" Shannon smirked.

"Heavy for humans, perhaps. No problem for me. Walter cares about you a lot, you know. He sat with you all day today."

"I know he cares," Scully whispered. "He's done a lot of good things for Mulder and I over the years. He was our ally, and a good boss."

"We won't force you to come with us," Shannon told her. "But we would like it. I know Walter would feel better about Sarah if he knew there was a doctor there. We're not sure about the extent or permanency of her blindness, and if there is trouble, well... We would all like you to join us. He would be devastated if you stayed."

"There's nothing left for me here," Scully replied seriously. "I'll come. I just...I'm not strong enough yet." Her voice quivered with the strength it took to admit to such vulnerability, but Shannon's calm expression did not waver.

"Like I said," she repeated. "There's no rush. If you ever want to talk, everyone here has lost something they cannot get back. We all need a rest. Personally as long as you all are healthy and safe I'm not in a hurry. We have plenty of supplies."

"Why don't you want to get there sooner?" Scully asked curiously.

"Because I don't know what they will do to me or what they will make me do when we get there," Shannon whispered reluctantly, standing to leave. "But that's not so important right now. I'll let you get back to sleep Dana. Goodnight."


	5. Chapter 5

Four

 _A campsite_

 _Tennessee – August 2005_

Mulder stared up at the stars as he lay in his sleeping bag. He did not have a pillow, and he could feel the sand underneath his head and amongst his hair, through his beard. The day had been hot, and he was sweating inside his enclosure. Still, he did not dare lie on top of the synthetic, padded fabric; if he did he would be covered in sand and dirt by morning. And if the wind got strong again he would need the bag to bury his head in.

The sky above him was black, and he guessed it was around midnight. The witching hour, he thought. He managed a soft smile at the daydream that phrase conjured, the image of he and Scully on a case about witches, her looking at him like she did when she thought he was gullible. Then again, he reasoned as he squinted at the stars, hadn't he asked her to marry him over a case about witches? He had, he remembered.

'I was hoping for something a little more helpful,' she had replied. He had only been teasing really, but he remembered it all so easily. He had struggled to displace his photographic memory where Scully was concerned, but after a few weeks underground it had just gotten too hard. He needed to think about her, to remember her. In a way it was preparing himself for what he was hopefully on his way to find. They had come so far already. They couldn't turn back now, could they? Would he really be outvoted come morning? Would they really force him to turn back, and if they tried, would he let them?

Mulder sighed as his eyes drifted over the stars. If his baby sister Samantha was up there, forever fourteen and watching him, she would be shaking her head with shame, her brown eyes wide and wise, loving but disappointed. Disappointed in him.

He was disappointed with himself. It had been somewhere in the vicinity of two months. After storming out of the house feeling claustrophobic and pissed off with his partner, he had caught a bus to the nearest interchange and bought a ticket south-west. In his last communication to Mulder, Gibson had mentioned he would have news shortly, and in his haste to get out of Virginia Mulder had spontaneously decided to take him up on his offer.

It was something the old Mulder had done many times on the X Files; heading off on a whim with only the hope of a scoop. Only he had not invited Scully along for the ride.

The sun had been setting by the time Mulder got off the bus at his destination. He had been away from home twenty-four hours, and the edge of the argument had worn off after the first four. He knew he had to call her and tell her where he was. He needed to apologise for picking a fight when she had just worked a double shift and was obviously exhausted.

Remembering her face and posture as she had arrived home only to be met with his frustration, Mulder felt like a prick. Of course she was going to argue back. After that long at work he should never have expected her to sit there and take it while he criticised her habit of taking on too many hours at the hospital. The sorry thing was Mulder had deliberately picked his moment because she had been weak. He had wanted a fight. He had wanted an excuse to storm out, to get the hell out of the tiny, little town they lived in.

And she had given it to him, almost too easily. As though she had been able to read that need in him right from the start, as though she was too exhausted to fight harder to keep him. In the end, she had let him go.

Mulder had known that rare allowance came with a condition; he was to return and suck up to her for a while. It was almost a pattern with them and one he was comfortable with. Except he had not returned, and there would be no more sucking up.

He sighed again, more deeply, remembering the shock at seeing Gibson standing at the bus station as he got off. Gibson was barely twenty and at full height stood not much higher than Mulder's waist. He was shorter than even Scully, but he was a strong kid mentally and that made up for his lack of physique. Mulder had been stunned to see him, and had approached immediately. Gibson had been glaring at him with his arms folded; it was a defensive posture and an angry expression Mulder had never really seen in the boy.

'Gibson, what are you-'

'I'm about to board another bus,' he had answered, cutting Mulder off. 'You're coming with me.' Gibson's stern, extremely unhappy tone had invited no further comment, and Mulder had followed him mutely to the ticket station, watching him purchase another one way ticket further south-west. 'Hurry up,' Gibson huffed once the tickets were in his hands. 'We can't miss it. I'll explain on the bus.'

Gibson had waited until the bus was rolling before turning to Mulder, who was sitting in the window seat. He had wanted the aisle but Gibson had flatly refused. The feelings of disquiet were becoming more sickening with every minute the young man made him wait for an explanation. Gibson was more than just frustrated with him. He was furious.

'You almost missed me,' he seethed once they were away from the bus station. 'You're lucky I heard you. What are you doing here?'

'You said you had something to tell me in your last email.'

'That's an excuse,' Gibson told him, reading his mind. Sometimes Mulder thought it was pointless to actually answer any of Gibson's questions, but it would be rude not to, and it was a measure of Gibson's respect for Mulder that he bothered to ask. 'You had a fight with Scully,' he stated seriously.

'Yeah, I was gonna call her-'

'Phones are out all over the place,' he interrupted. 'You can't call. She doesn't know where you are?'

'No,' Mulder mumbled, frowning. 'Is that why you're pissy? Because we had a fight?'

'You should have stayed,' Gibson growled. 'I didn't tell you because I knew you and Scully would be safe there. You know the truth. I know you have provisions. Where we're going now, I need to help the friends who don't understand.'

'What are you talking about?' Mulder had asked, watching Gibson stare at the analogue watch on his strong wrist. He had long arms and large hands for such a little dude, which led Mulder to believe either he was a late bloomer or that the experiments done on his brain over so much of his early life had somehow stunted his physical growth. Some sort of chemical imbalance wasn't out of the question either, considering the junk DNA active inside him that remained inactive inside everybody else.

Gibson politely ignored all of those thoughts and concentrated on what Mulder really had to know.

'They're coming early.'

He only needed three words, and it was enough to make Mulder want to throw up. No wonder Gibson had given him the window seat, he realised. It was in case he tried to stop the bus and go back. He had sucked in a sharp breath. Surely he could make it back. He had to get back home. He had to be with Scully when 'they' came. He had promised her. He had promised her his soul in 'that' moment and he HAD to get back.

But as usual Gibson had a way of bluntly telling him how it was, and Mulder began to comprehend the consequences of his decision to leave for more than just a few hours.

'You would never make it back in time. When we get to where we're going, we'll only have an hour to find them.'

'I need to call her.'

'You can't. Phones went down last night.'

'Last night?'

'In preparation,' Gibson had explained. 'I didn't know it was happening until then.'

'I need to go back,' Mulder had whispered, panic rising in his chest and quickening the beat of his heart. Gibson merely shook his head. 'I promised her we'd go together.'

'You won't die,' Gibson told him. 'Not if we make it on time.' He had decided then that Mulder didn't need or want any more information, and he stopped talking.

Mulder had been content to look out of the window of the bus as the stars as they appeared in the darkening sky.

'Will I see her again?' he had asked after Gibson declared they were almost there. The boy had stared at him, serious and grim.

'No,' he had answered simply.

No. Inside his sleeping bag, Mulder let the word repeat inside his mind as his eyes shut to stop the tears. One managed to trickle sideways down his face towards his ear. He opened his eyes again, struggling to clear his vision. If he just focussed on the stars, it would be all right, he told himself. It would be all right.

Or not. It would NOT be all right. Because though he was not alone at the makeshift campsite, he was more alone than he had been since the minute before the moment when a pair of high heels had alerted him to a distinctly feminine visitor in the basement of the FBI Hoover building. His new partner. Sent to spy on him. She had become his protector, his lifeline, his believer. She had believed not always in his theories, but always and without question in him. The plan to use her against him had backfired. She had been his best friend, and in the past few years his lover. The woman that he loved.

The woman that he loved that he had left to confront the alien invasion all by herself.

Mulder sat up in the sleeping bag and leant forward over his outstretched, long legs, clutching his head in his hands and shaking it. He HAD to stop thinking about Scully. He had to, he had to. What if she was gone? What if she had died? It had been two months. He had seen the bodies. So many bodies. Those human remains reduced almost to ash. Soon they would be a part of the earth once more. Within months the only evidence of human colonisation would be the cars, the buildings, the roads not yet destroyed.

At least in this part of the world, he reassured himself. At least in THIS part of the world.

Mulder had been surprised when the bus had pulled into their stop a whole five minutes early. He had both expected and dreaded delays, but the roads had been quieter at night and though confusion over the telecommunication problems would have spread, mass panic had not yet ensued. Gibson took it all in his stride, solemn and determined.

The night air had been cold as Mulder towered over Gibson. His breath had fogged in front of him and he had pulled his bare arms tight around his broad frame. He regretted not rugging up more before leaving the house, just as he still regretted not taking his cell phone, and taking his wallet with his credit card. If he had left without it, there would have been no point getting on even the first bus. He would have just walked around the block a few times, then gone home and worked through his frustrations with Scully.

Instead of being warm in his bed, he had been walking down a foreign, suburban street with Gibson, who seemed to know where he was going without referring to any maps.

'You been here before?' he had asked. Gibson had nodded.

'They invite me at Thanksgiving.' Mulder had smiled then, wondering who they were going to find, to attempt to save. Gibson had always been welcome at his own home, but had stayed away on purpose. Communicating via the occasional email was one thing, but Gibson and Mulder both knew that other people knew where they were and who they socialised with. To be seen together was potentially dangerous, even if it was for an innocent holiday celebration. Not even Scully's mother came to visit.

In truth, Mulder had not seen Gibson in the flesh since the night he had escaped from the military prison where he had been held, tried and sentenced to death. It had been strange to be in his presence after three years, but at the same time familiar. It was always familiar with Gibson. He was so steadfast and reliable. He disliked mundane chit-chat. He knew Mulder as well as Mulder knew himself, so Mulder was only ever uncomfortable around him when he was uncomfortable with himself.

Just as he had been walking along the streets at night, watching Gibson obsessively checking his watch, thinking about what Scully would be doing. He could not remember whether or not she was rostered on to work. He thought she'd had a rostered day off, and she was only supposed to usually work during the days, but perhaps she had picked up another emergency night shift, or maybe she had stayed back late at the office.

Or maybe she was at home worrying because the phones didn't work and he had been gone for more than an entire day with nothing but the clothes on his back and his wallet.

'I am such a wank,' he had mumbled. Gibson scoffed, just ahead of him.

'No arguments from me,' he shot back. 'But stop feeling sorry for yourself and move faster. They're your friends too.'

Gibson had refused to elaborate until they had happened upon the right street. Then he had broken into a run. Mulder had purposefully slowed his long stride so that he tailed Gibson. He had barely been puffing by the time they reached the house, but Gibson had taken a few seconds to calm his breath before banging on the door. Lights had been on inside. It had been late, but not past his own usual bedtime.

The rustle of a nearby sleeping bag alerted Mulder to movement to his left, but he remained hunched over with his head covered, silent and still. He knew who it was. They wandered off into the distance towards their allocated toilet area and returned a few minutes later, crouching beside him. A warm, soft hand landed on his shirt-covered shoulder and squeezed.

"Are you okay?"

Mulder decided he had to say something otherwise she would worry. He lifted his head and turned towards the voice of Monica Reyes. Her dark brown hair had grown past her shoulders and was loose and as greasy and sandy as his. Her brown eyes were black pools in the night and they glistened with the sheen of unshed tears. Her lips quivered and Mulder thought she might have been awakened more from a dream than the need to relieve herself. He nodded at her, pressing his lips together and managing a pained smile.

"Just thinking about John's face when he opened your door," he mumbled. Monica broke into a smile and chuckled, her hand drifting away from his shoulder. She nodded.

"I don't think mine was much better."

"You feeling okay?" he asked, concerned at the lack of colour he suddenly noticed in her olive skin.

"Yeah, just a little queasy," she conceded. "I should lie down I just, were you...thinking about Dana?" Mulder pressed his lips together more tightly and nodded just once, his eyes glazing over as he looked away. Monica's hand returned to his shoulder for another comforting squeeze.

"When did Gibson say we were voting?"

"In the morning," he mumbled. Monica nodded thoughtfully. "It's okay I...Maybe John's right. We're so far over schedule. Maybe since we're about halfway we should re-evaluate and maybe, maybe it was stupid of me to suggest another vote. Maybe we should just go back."

"No, it wasn't stupid at all," she assured him in a serious whisper. "John's just worried about me. It's my fault we've had to take this last month so slowly, but I'm doing better now. Mulder, wanting to go back...That's not stupid at all. As you said, we're already halfway. Why turn back now? It will take a few more weeks to get there and then longer to get back. I...You can understand why John and Gibson are against it, can't you?" Mulder nodded. "If we go any further, there's no turning back for a long while."

"I know," he whispered. "I can go alone."

"No," Monica insisted, gripping his shoulder. "That is not an option. Mulder, my vote is with you, okay?"

"Monica," Mulder sighed, tears of resignation stinging his eyes. "No, it's pointless. It's just...I'm sure she was at work. She wouldn't have, she...She's probably dead."

"What's the rush?" she asked. "There's nothing to say we have to be south by a certain time. We have all the time in the world left, really, the way Gibson tells it. We will find her. We'll find out what happened to her."

"I can't drag you all on another selfish quest."

"Mulder what if she wasn't working?" Monica pressed. "What if she's alive?"

"That's what I said about Samantha," he mumbled. "I don't know if...I could stand to see Scully all burned up. I don't know if I want to."

"What happened between this afternoon and now to make you doubt what you want?"

"I don't doubt what I want," Mulder assured her softly, confidently. "I know exactly what I want. I'm just not sure I could deal with the alternative. I don't know if I can live without her. It can't be the end, not the way we left it. It's not right."

"Maybe not," she pondered. "But sometimes life doesn't end the way you thought it would." Mulder swallowed heavily and nodded. That he understood.

"You should go back to sleep," he urged, not wanting to dwell on all who had been lost to him in his life, in Scully's life.

"Okay," Monica agreed, stretching up on her knees and leaning forward to press her lips briefly against his cheek. "Try to sleep Mulder." He nodded even though he knew it was useless. Her tenderness was touching, but it would not be enough to put him to sleep.

xxx 

The sun had barely revealed itself over the tops of the distant buildings when Mulder awoke from what could only be described as a disturbed nap. The lightening sky was all it took to wake him and he was not surprised to see John already digging through one of their bags of supplies for food and probably the little shaving kit and mirror he carried, which he still used obsessively. Mulder couldn't be stuffed with all that. John Doggett was a morning person, through and through. Mulder was not as alert first thing, at least not without coffee, which happened to be in short supply since his world had ended.

Funny that, he mused dryly, clearing his throat to get John's attention and lazily waving. His expression was not happy and neither was John's. They'd had a major argument the previous day. Only Monica and Gibson had prevented it becoming a full-on fight. Sharing two months worth of close quarters with one mind-reader and two ex-colleagues who happened to be happily married and expecting their first child was not on Mulder's list of 'happy things to do before I die'.

He felt claustrophobic. It was actual claustrophobia, not the poor excuse for boredom he had experienced in Virginia. In the past two months, the first spent in the confines of a small, overcrowded basement, he had drowned and he was still drowning. He was smothered by grief and the attentiveness of old friends who had never really understood what he and Scully had. No, Mulder corrected. What they still had.

John and Monica were the example of what Mulder would never have, and on top of the knowledge he would likely never see Scully again it was bordering on too much. Monica understood and he was grateful for that. Gibson also knew, and kept the conversation neutral and focussed. Nobody left Mulder alone for any great length of time. He was not allowed to carry any weapons or maps, and he was under strict orders not to wander off.

Like he was some three year old on a leash and they were scared any minute he would break free and do something stupid. Mulder had already BEEN stupid. He'd had enough.

John brought over a bottle of water and plonked himself onto the sand. He was wearing worn jeans, as they all were, and a scruffy blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His light brown hair was short and straight, the stubble still on his cheeks was specked with grey, and his blue eyes were as clear as a freshwater stream. They were a lighter shade of blue than Scully's, Mulder had determined. They made it very difficult for John to get away with lying, so it was a good thing he was an honest bloke. Up front, ex-NYPD, ex-army, ex-FBI. No fuss, hard working; qualities Mulder appreciated in a buddy, though he and John had not always been on the friendliest of terms.

"Thanks," he muttered, accepting the bottle of water and taking a long drink. It was John's silent way of apologising for using Scully to hurt him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Think I prefer sleeping indoors," John teased, earning a chuckle from Mulder. "Nice to have some fresh air though. See the sky." They nodded together in agreement and watched Monica sit up and rub her forehead. Mulder knew it was routine. She pulled her hair back with the tie that had been wrapped around her wrist, and it was not because it was hot. It was so that she didn't throw up all over it. True to form, after a minute of quiet contemplation, she stood and very calmly walked as far away from the group as possible, before kneeling carefully and throwing up into the sand.

"Guess that's my signal to get up," Gibson grumbled from the comfort of his sleeping bag. John reached his foot forward and gave the bag a gentle kick somewhere in the vicinity of Gibson's backside, and the three men shared a laugh.

"You all right Mon?" John called from his seat. She lifted a hand and waved him back. At the start she had wanted him close, her nausea frightening for her, and in the past month she had been tired and unwell, but more lately she seemed to only throw up the once and she preferred her space while she did. The rest of the day she was fine, and she was nowhere near as weakened as she had been. John knew she was deeply embarrassed but Mulder and Gibson had been good about it; neither of them really cared as long as she was otherwise healthy. John was grateful that was the case, but five months in, he was starting to stress about their predicament, and where they would be and who they would be with when it all went down, when they actually had to 'have' a baby.

"Was Dana very sick?" Mulder asked suddenly, gesturing towards Monica with one hand and scratching his thick, brown beard with the other. John chuckled.

"Yeah," he replied, shaking his head. "Although I think it was partly psychological. You know with uh, all the confusion about how it could've happened, and uh, you not being there." Mulder hummed, wincing as Monica cleared her throat rather loudly. It was so silent around them that noise travelled much farther. Mulder knew if he shouted it would echo, perhaps even for a mile. Not even a bird flapped its wings in the early morning sky.

Nobody said any more until Monica returned. After rinsing her mouth she managed a few sips of water and retrieved her packet of crackers, holding them in her lap as she sat cross-legged on the sand. At the start they had cared about the sand, but after just a few days outdoors it seemed pointless. It was all over them, and nobody was concerned with appearances. Not after spending a month in a tiny basement with three other people.

"You gonna eat?" Mulder asked. Monica winced and shook her head.

"Not yet," she managed, clearing her throat more softly. "But I feel good. So...Let's not waste time."

"All right," Gibson sighed, taking the lead. Sometimes he thought it was funny the three adults in their late thirties and forties, all former law enforcement, looked to 'him' for guidance. He had only just turned twenty. But he knew that in that moment he held them together. He had made the decision to protect them all, and he knew none of them really understood the scope of what had happened, or what they would face in the future.

"Here are the options," he continued. "I'll explain it again just so we're really clear. Firstly, again, you all need to understand that we have to move south. Originally we set out to get to Virginia, and we said it would probably take six weeks. So far we've spent approximately four weeks and we're only a little over halfway. Now that Monica's stronger, it might only take a couple of weeks to get there. However, if we turned back now there are places we can go where you will be able to survive but they're south of the border. There are other people there, there are doctors there." He stared pointedly at Monica and she looked away nervously. "The destruction there is minimal."

"Would we be enslaved there?" John asked.

"Some survivors like us were expected. I think provisions exist there for life to co-exist. Not like here. Here it is barren. It's like...a giant resource mine, all stripped away. It will be like this everywhere in this country, and the cities are worse. Mulder, that's what I found out, that I thought I might tell you. I won't know for sure until we get closer."

"Was there a virus?" Mulder asked.

"Not the same one you're speaking of," Gibson answered. "It killed everyone above-ground, but it's gone now. It won't come back now they're here. I knew you had an underground reinforced bunker built. I knew John and Monica only had a cellar. That's why I needed to make sure they were safe more than you and Scully."

"How far into Mexico is somewhere like you described?" John asked. "Somewhere where there are other people?"

"It could be a few weeks further south of the border," Gibson estimated. "Maybe another month. The first option we have is to begin moving south today. We would be recanting on the promise we made to Mulder to return with him to Virginia to search for Scully, but even if we turned back now the later stages might be slow-going, with Monica pregnant. But I think we would be with others by the time she had the baby. The second idea-" He paused to sigh. "Is to continue to travel north-east to his home, to investigate the whereabouts of Scully."

"And how long is that again?" John asked warily. "You said a few weeks?"

"Up to a month there if we set a slow pace," Gibson emphasised. Monica rolled her eyes and Mulder had to hide his smirk behind his hand. Gibson watched them both seriously, not visibly reacting to either of them, preferring to continue. "Assuming we find her there, in whatever state, we would then need to move south. It would take just as long to get back if not longer, seeing as how we would be so tired. We might need to stay in Virginia a couple of weeks to rest."

"Is there any real urgency for us to get across the border?" Monica asked curiously. "You said yesterday there wasn't."

"Not exactly, no," Gibson conceded. "But the sort of round trip we're talking about, on foot, means by the time we get to any civilised area you could be close to being due. You might even have the baby just with us. You need to think about that."

"I have thought about it," she replied defiantly, sticking out her chin. "I vote Virginia."

"Monica," John sighed, shaking his head.

"It's Dana Scully," she retorted, not giving him a chance to go on. "My 'condition' has nothing to do with it. I'm healthy, I can walk."

"Yeah 'now' you can walk, but what about in three or four months time?" John pressed. Monica turned to stare at him.

"She is my friend," she hissed seriously, tears filling her brown eyes and deceiving the residual resistance evident in her expression. "If it was me I know Mulder and Scully would do the same for us. I know it John. We need to check."

"Four months of our lives, maybe five, to 'check'?"

"Are you telling me," Monica whispered, her eyes widening and searching John's for some kind of reaction. "That if it was me, if there were things unsaid between us, if there was just a chance I survived, even a good chance that I was dead, you would walk away? Could you walk away from that John?"

John sighed. He hated when she searched his soul with those large eyes. She was not stupid. She knew exactly what she was doing and she knew he was helpless to it. It was not because she had some unseen power over him, and it was not because he was weak. It was because she was right. It was the same way she had convinced him to vote for Virginia in the first place. If the roles had been reversed, he would have insisted on going back for her, and Mulder was not even insisting. He had been the previous day, but now he seemed resigned to whatever fate they all chose for him. He sat silently, his hands clasped together, too involved in his own thoughts to even bother fidgeting.

"Mulder," John urged. "What do you want to do?"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled without looking up. John turned to Monica and saw her brushing sudden tears from her eyes.

"Yes it does Mulder," she insisted. "Yes it does matter. Look me in the eye and tell me what you want." Mulder sighed, reluctantly raising his head and staring into her face. Her cheeks had more colour and he softened at the sight of her brushing them self-consciously, drying any tears that had spilled.

"I want to see her," he answered, his voice low and cracking. His vulnerability seemed to strengthen Monica and she sat up straighter and pinned Gibson with a serious glare.

"My vote is for Virginia," she repeated firmly. Beside her, John sighed.

"Me too," he groaned, sounding pained to admit defeat. Monica stared at him in shock and he shrugged helplessly. "I would want to see you too," he sighed, shaking his head. "We'll...we can manage with the baby as long as nothing goes wrong and it doesn't-"

"May I please interrupt?" Gibson asked politely, his voice deep but not as deep as John or Mulder's. "Can I present a third option?"

"Thought you said we couldn't split up?" John asked.

"No," Gibson corrected. "Say we all go to Virginia, and find evidence of Scully's survival, but no Scully. What then?"

"Does everyone know to go south?" Mulder asked hopefully.

"Did you know to go south before I told you?" Gibson shot back smartly. "Unless the survivors are with somebody who knows of the plans they will not know and will most likely survive as scavengers for as long as that allows. My point is that if Scully has survived and ventured outdoors... She would most likely be long gone by the time we get to your house."

"Or she could still be there," Monica stated optimistically. "Mulder said they had supplies down there to last a year."

"Mulder will want to search for her."

"No," Mulder assured him. "No, I could come back with you."

"I don't believe you," Gibson replied. "And neither do they. How long would you make them stay while you searched?"

"I could probably canvas the town in three days," Mulder promised quickly. "Five at most. If we can't find her by then, then...We can go. I swear it." He held out his hand towards Gibson and stared him down with the most honest expression he could manage, making sure just one thought ran through his mind.

I promise. I promise. One week. I promise.

Gibson's eyes slid to Monica and John and they both nodded their consent. He knew he had been out-voted. It was not that he didn't want to try to find Scully if she was alive, it was just that the probability that she was alive was so slim compared to the real chance they all had at a semi-decent future if they could just cross the border. They had wasted so much time already. Instead of moving forward they were taking huge steps backwards.

But if Scully was worth that to them then he would help, and he would help wholeheartedly. He had always liked Scully; she had always trusted him with all of her thoughts, the good and the bad. She was, or had been, a very good person, and he knew better than anyone else how badly Mulder loved her. If they found her alive it would be a miracle. If they found her dead Gibson knew Mulder would prefer to die there with her.

Staring at his outstretched hand, Gibson slowly extended his own.

"Virginia," he declared. "We leave immediately."


	6. Chapter 6

Five

 _Virginia – September 2005_

Monica, Gibson, John and Mulder stood in a tight huddle as the wind swept sand up around their bodies. All had their arms up around their heads and had to squint to see. The sand was painful against their sunburned skins and their eyes watered from a mixture of the painfully bright setting sun, exhaustion and the sharp grains caught in their lashes. They all had sunglasses but the wind and sandstorm was so strong that the sunglasses did more harm than good. They would put them on again once the wind died down.

Gibson was more sheltered only by the height of the remaining three bodies, all tall and lean, crowding him as he attempted to speak.

"We HAVE to keep moving."

"No freaking way!" John shouted back, the wind rushing through his ears, making it difficult to hear. "We have to wait it out."

"And where do you suggest we do that?" Mulder quipped. "We're close, I know it."

"We're in the middle of fucking NOWHERE!" John exclaimed.

"That was the whole point of us living out here!" Mulder yelled. "You were in the army right? Suck it up! We're half an hour trek."

"Monica-"

"I'm FINE!" Monica exclaimed hurriedly, waving her hand about her face in a 'don't worry and don't involve me' gesture. "Let's just keep going. I'd rather get to shelter sooner rather than later. Half an hour Mulder?"

"Yeah. I know where we are." Monica nodded, catching his squinted eyes and offering a nervous smile of support and agreement. "We're heading INTO the wind," he added, just so everyone was clear on what they would have to battle against to get to his home.

"Let's just hurry then, before it gets dark!" John relented. "Mulder you lead."

Mulder strode out ahead of the trio, his long legs carrying him faster. He was happy for the time to himself. He had lost track of just how long they had been travelling. He thought they had made good time, but he knew it had definitely been closer to a month. He was somewhat grateful for Monica's pregnancy, in actuality, because it was a pretty good benchmark. He thought they had been trekking for a total of six to eight weeks, for she had to be nearing six months.

She had lost some weight, but not as much as the rest of them, thanks mostly to a unanimous vote by himself, John and Gibson to give her double rations once she had regained her appetite sometime during the first half of their walk. She had objected at first but they had persisted and John had threatened her. Mulder didn't mind that she ate twice as much as he did in a day. She needed it more and they never really went hungry. There were enough homes along the way and they could find enough preserved food for a few days at a time without ever running too low.

Mulder had never spent very much time with Monica, though he knew she had been a good friend to Scully in his absence, and he remembered what she had said at his trial. She was an ally, and a tough but sensitive woman. It had been nice to have one of those around again. She had broken up a lot of fights in the past three months since the invasion, but she had never shied away from her opinions. She was good company.

He was also extremely impressed by her resilience and creativity. She had taken to wearing her jeans with the button and zip open, held lower on her hips by a long strip of sturdy material which she used as a belt. To combat what she dismissed as back pain she had discovered what he was sure had been known as a 'boob tube' in some teenager's bedroom and wore it around her abdomen like a brace. She kept up with them but wasn't afraid to come out and say she needed to rest. There was no point not saying it really; Gibson would call for them to stop if she didn't.

Mulder wondered whether Monica knew he was procrastinating by thinking about her when she suddenly caught up with him, leaving Gibson and John to trail behind. She reached for his hand and he helped tug her forward through the wind. The sandstorm had died down and was no longer flicking at their faces but the wind was still strong. They were all grateful they could open their eyes, and all four had put on their sunglasses, Mulder's and Gibson's stolen from homes they had looted early in their journey.

"Close?" Monica asked, her voice low but still able to be heard over the rushing of sand.

"Yeah," Mulder sighed, squeezing her long, thin fingers tightly. Monica smiled. Out of all of them, even Gibson, he asked her how she was feeling the least often. She knew there were probably various reasons, but she thought one of them was because he understood how horribly annoying it was to be constantly watched. She appreciated the space he gave her, and they had gotten to know each other well since the night he had turned up on her doorstep with Gibson.

Monica had always been able to sense energies better than others, and she could feel Mulder's pain radiating off him. She had not spent a minute with him where he was without it. Suddenly it was strong and she knew he was frightened, so she held his hand. It was something she knew John and Gibson could never give him, but he needed something comforting to hold onto, particularly if they got there and the body that had belonged to Dana Scully was ash.

"Scared?" she asked needlessly. Mulder nodded. "Me too," she assured him. She stopped suddenly when Mulder came to a halt and pointed. They had reached the top of a gentle slope and gotten close enough to finally see it. Mulder waited for John and Gibson to catch up and stop beside them.

"There," he announced, pointing into the distance. Between them and the small, brown rectangle on the horizon was an expanse of sand. "This was all forest," Mulder explained. "This was our backyard, and that's our house."

"Good," John declared. "Gibson?"

"What?" Gibson asked suspiciously. He knew what John wanted, but he was not going to give in. Not where they were. Not so soon. John stared at him and Gibson shook his head. "This isn't the time or the place," he replied. "Let's keep going. It will be night soon."

Mulder nodded, swallowing painfully, his throat dry. He forced his legs to start moving again and tried his best to ignore the moment that had just transpired between his companions. If John had been attempting subtlety it had not worked; Mulder knew exactly what he had been asking.

So, Gibson, can you hear her? Is she in there or was this just a monumental waste of time? Just crazy Mulder, chasing after another ghost.

It was not as though there were too many other voices to get in the way, Mulder realised. Amidst such silence Gibson should have been able to pick up thoughts over a great distance. His refusal to acknowledge any such thoughts from the direction of the house was a clear sign he heard none. Or perhaps he was simply playing coy, Mulder assured himself. He was just being tactful and letting Mulder discover the truth for himself, rather than giving away the game. After all, that was called cheating.

Mulder did not want a cheat-sheet to help him find his answers. Not this time.

The house, as they got closer, looked larger than Mulder remembered. It looked as abandoned as every other house they had passed. There were no lights, no humming appliances, and no signs of life. Monica followed him closely as he approached via the front door. John and Gibson trailed, both eerily silent.

Mulder made sure nobody was standing too close and then he backed up, balanced himself, and kicked the door in. It swung inwards but luckily did not break completely. He would be able to shut it to keep the sand out. He really should have taken his house keys with him. Scully would have been freaking. Mulder calmly let everyone inside ahead of him before putting the door back in place. They congregated in the living room.

"This is huge," Monica whispered in awe. "How many rooms is it?"

"Two floors, more rooms than we know what to do with. Lots of little hiding places."

"I bet," John muttered. The living room itself was simple. There was a large, comfortable couch that dominated and faced the fireplace. A bookshelf held a handful of books but was mostly empty. A television was in the corner of the room but nothing was really pointed at it. The coffee table was littered with magazines and medical journals but they were covered with a thin film of dust. The windows were locked and the air was stale. The last remaining rays of light filtered in through the gaps in the curtains and illuminated dust particles which danced around their faces, disturbed by their presence.

"What did you do in this room?" John asked. It was an odd, impersonal sort of arrangement, he realised. Sparse and uncomfortable. It was nothing like the living room he and Monica had left behind, which had been bright and cheery; white walls, lace curtains and cream cushions, with a large television and a smaller fireplace.

"We sat on the couch sometimes and talked," Mulder answered. His voice sounded calm but the fact he kept shifting his weight on his feet gave away his anxieties. "We mostly congregated in the kitchen and upstairs. My office is here," he explained, walking over and opening the door. He peered around the corner cautiously, as though Scully would be sitting there waiting for him like she had so often in their small, cluttered basement office at the FBI. She wasn't. He shut the door and managed to face his friends with an awkward smile. "Bit of a mess," he apologised.

"What's upstairs?" John asked.

"The bedroom," Gibson replied. "Maybe we should check the kitchen first, in case she left a note."

"Right," Mulder whispered. In case she 'left' a note. Was that Gibson's passive way of again confirming that Scully's conscious mind was not present in their home, he wondered? No, Mulder told himself. For that night Gibson was just an ordinary person. He had no idea what had happened to Scully. Until Mulder saw a body, he was not listening to another living soul's opinion of anything to do with her.

Mulder forgave Monica for opening the pantry as soon as she entered the kitchen. She automatically began retrieving preserved food and putting it on the dusty bench. It was their routine and in times of stress it was soothing to do something so normal. If you could call looting other people's pantries 'normal', but it was as close as they came.

Mulder could see no note from Scully either on the bench, the dining table or stuck to the fridge. Apart from the dust, the kitchen was immaculately clean, and it told him that Scully had probably been pretty mad at him for running out. Everything he had strewn about in his frustration while she had been at work she had put away where it belonged.

Except for the two of them, everything in their home was in its place.

Mulder felt his heart constrict as he glanced behind him towards the staircase.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Gibson asked. Mulder shook his head. "We'll wait here then."

Mulder left the kitchen and managed to walk himself to the bottom of the stairs before fear caused him to hesitate. He shut his eyes and remembered standing on a bridge amidst burn victims. The latest burnings looked just the same as he remembered in so many ways. He remembered thinking Scully was amongst those victims at the bridge. She had been missing; they were all abductees, drawn to their deaths by the chip in their neck.

But Scully had not been amongst the burned. She had survived. She had no explanation for that particular twist of luck or fate, she had very little memory besides what she had discovered via hypnosis, and she had gotten through the whole terrifying incident with minor flesh wounds. It gave him hope that she had survived the burning yet again.

Mulder hated fire and Scully had survived at the bridge; both were good signs that she would not be taken from him that way. She could not be taken from him THAT way.

He propelled himself up the staircase and into the large main bedroom before he could stop himself. It was empty, he realised, his stomach turning in elation and dread. Empty. The bed had been turned down on Scully's side and the sheets looked ruffled, as though she had been in bed and gotten out. The curtain on her side was open, revealing the darkening sky outside. The lighting was dim and it was getting hard to see, and he bolted back downstairs hurriedly. He knew where they kept their torches.

"She's not there," he announced, even though he suspected Gibson had already shared as much. He retrieved their three torches and deposited two on the bench beside the food. "We'll need these to go into the bunker," he added. "I need to check the room more thoroughly." Monica, John and Gibson all nodded, mute, aware he was too wired to pay much attention to them.

"We better go upstairs," Gibson announced after several moments of silence. "He wants to show us things." He took one torch and pushed the other one towards John as Monica hurried off in front of them into the growing darkness.

Mulder was nearly jumping when he met them at the entrance to the main bedroom.

"Come in, come in," he invited excitedly, waving his hand around. "She's alive, I know it. We have to get to the bunker. She wasn't at work, she was right here."

"How do you know?" Monica asked curiously, taking in the room. It was much more lived-in than the living room, she decided. The bed was large and looked comfortable. There was a hefty duchess and two bedside tables. The door to the ensuite was open and revealed an impressive shower-bath ensemble. Personal effects were scattered around both rooms. She already knew Mulder and Scully had lived without a lot of possessions, keeping their life as low maintenance as possible in case they were forced to move, but she was heartened by the home she found in their bedroom; a real home, much smaller and more compact than the large house in which it was carefully hidden. Protected.

"Well see the bed," Mulder explained, ignorant of Monica's observations. "Dana always makes the bed before she goes to work. If she had left for a shift at the hospital, it would not be turned down. I don't care how tired she is, she always pulls it back up. And see the curtains are open and one end is drawn back over the edge of the table. It's being 'held' open. I think she was looking outside at one point. She liked to think there sometimes. And my most important piece of evidence is 'this'!" He pointed the torch at her empty bedside table and Monica and John stared blankly as Gibson chuckled. "Our photo. It's gone, she's taken it somewhere."

"What's it of?" Monica asked gently.

"Her and me in New York not long after we all split up. She's got a Knicks cap on and I've got my arms around her. Her mother took it for us and sent it up. It's in a frame. It's big, eight by ten at least. It doesn't just disappear; hasn't moved from that spot right beside her in three years."

"Anything else missing?" John asked, gradually feeling more positive about the situation. Even though he was bias towards wanting to find Scully alive in the bunker waiting for them, even though he was sceptical about that fantasy becoming reality, objectively he knew Mulder's observations were sound. The evidence did point towards Scully stepping outside what Mulder knew to be her regular pattern. He watched Mulder as he searched through Scully's bedside drawers, and then crossed the room to search through his own.

"Yeah I know what else is missing," he replied after spending minutes checking the small compartments. "We have another photo album. It's tiny; it's got photos of her as a kid and her family and William. It's usually on her side of the bed. It's gone too. We've never removed it from this room. Everything in this room is in a specific place, and nothing gets moved in case we need to pack in a hurry. That way, it's less likely we forget something important because we're in a rush and it's not where it's meant to be."

"You're sayin' if she panicked she would have grabbed the photos out of instinct?" John queried. Mulder nodded.

"These are the only photographic records we've got of our life, save for that." He gestured with the torch to the duchess behind them, where a frame sat with a picture of Mulder and his sister Samantha as children, taken not long before she had been abducted. "That's it," he repeated definitely. "That's all we've got." He walked over to the frame and picked it up. "And I'll be taking this with me if nobody has an objection."

"Not at all," Monica promised. "So...She was here. She might have been in bed when it happened, or at the window. She might have heard the sound, experienced the flash, and realised what was happening. Or if not what was happening, that something serious was happening. And then what?"

"She would have gone into the bunker," Mulder insisted. "It was our plan. She wouldn't need to take anything with her. There are clothes and facilities and it's like a little underground house down there. It took me two years to finish it. There must be...She must have gotten there fast enough to avoid whatever burned everyone else."

"How long will it take to reach it?" Monica asked. "I...I know you're eager, but I'm kind of hungry." Mulder smirked. When Monica announced she was hungry, it meant she was starving. "And maybe we could...clean up a little, maybe collapse on the couch for an hour?" Her voice rose hopefully at the end and Mulder laughed. He was happy enough with what they had found to wait for an hour. If Scully was in the bunker she was safe. If she wasn't, then there would be no point beginning to search the town for her in the middle of the night.

"Yeah," he assured his friend, unable to let her down when she smiled at him so hopefully. "Let's get dinner. Mon I know how you are about using other people's hair brushes, but I don't think Scully would mind if you helped yourself to the contents of our ensuite. We've got half a pharmacy in there."

xxx 

Gibson sighed as John dragged him downstairs before Monica and Mulder had finished talking. He willingly humoured the man until they were huddled by the back door.

"Mulder said the bunker's out that way," John whispered, stretching his arm towards the outside. "Is she there?" Gibson simply stared at him with a blank expression on his face. "Look I won't tell them either way," John promised. "You know I want her to be there as much as the next guy but you're not giving off any good vibes."

"I can't hear her," Gibson confirmed in a reluctant whisper. "That doesn't mean she's not there. It might just mean she's...not 'all' there."

"She could be dead you mean?" John asked. Gibson shook his head.

"It's what I was worried about. It looks like she did make it to the bunker. If she stayed down long enough she would be fine, just like we are. The fact I can't hear her indicates not that she's dead but that she's already left and moved on."

"Could she be around locally somewhere?"

"Maybe. It's been about three months since it happened though. Would you be able to sit underground by yourself for three months? Keep coming back to it every night, all by yourself?" John sighed, unable to answer aloud. "As I said, the cities were where most of the destruction was. All the buildings here should be intact, but the virus would have spread. There will be the same burn victims here as elsewhere. This was why I came to you and Monica instead of them. Where this house is, it's much safer. There would have been much more time to get underground before danger set in."

"Mulder said he would stay a week and search, and we can help with that, but did he really mean it?"

"He meant it at the time and I think he still does," Gibson replied. "But it will depend what we find underground. We may need to persuade him. I think in the meantime we should organise dinner."

"Sure, time for a break."

"John," Gibson sighed, shaking his head. "Don't tell him. He wants to find this out for himself. He deserves that much."

"Yeah, no worries I...I just wanted to know," John assured him. "For me. So that I...didn't get 'my' hopes up. I feel for him. He's been so down on himself about all this."

"I know," Gibson reminded him. "He's excited now. At least there's that."

xxx 

There was complete silence as Mulder unlocked the trap door, kneeling over the open floor in his cluttered office, his desk covered with tabloids and X File clippings. The hidden door was big enough for one person to fit through at a time, and it opened upwards. Mulder's hands shook as he released the lock and the hinges creaked, protesting at being moved. He couldn't see any telling fingerprints amongst the dust but he just knew Scully had been home when it happened. She had been in her room; she would have gotten to the bunker. Whether she had used this entry point or the other was irrelevant.

Once the door was open he accepted the torch Monica had been shining in his direction and he shone it more obviously down the hole, revealing a short ladder.

"Everyone got their hard hats?" he teased, looking up and grinning. Gibson rolled his eyes.

"It's stable and all?" John asked.

"Totally, and there are even emergency exits," Mulder promised. "We just need some water, maybe some food in case anyone gets peckish. I'll go first. Whoever has the second torch should bring up the rear. It's a five or ten minute walk." He wasted no more time in climbing down the ladder, and Monica was next, followed by John and then Gibson.

"Wow," Monica observed once they were all down, her voice echoing along the dark tunnel in front of them. "It actually smells like the 'earth' down here. It's not sandy at all."

"Wouldn't be so sure of that darlin'," John chuckled, touching her lower back and directing her attention to the ground they were walking on. It was a mixture of gravel, clay, and sand. "Has to filter through somewhere I suppose."

"You're right though," Gibson agreed positively, looking around. "It's still the same underground. These reinforcements will hold."

"Well that's good to know!" John scoffed as they began walking. "Jesus Mulder, how long did you say this took you? Look at these beams. Didn't someone think it was real odd you buying up all this hardware in a tiny town?"

"I was 'renovating the house'," he replied. "And I'm not the one who got the pleasure of buying it all. I'm a wanted man remember? Scully insisted I have nothing to do with her in public. Nobody knew I was here but her. Everyone at her job thought she was single."

"Seriously?" Monica asked. "Oh that must have been so hard on you both."

"Not really," Mulder shrugged. "She didn't have friends at work. We kept to ourselves. I was more like...a drifter people might see around town occasionally and just assume I was visiting relatives or something. If anyone asked, I just said I was visiting or passing through. No big deal. No one ever came to the house."

"Yeah, cos you got a barbed wire gate," Gibson teased. Mulder laughed.

"Pretty neat huh? It's our little hermit house. So Scully went off and bought all this and dumped it in the backyard and I took care of the rest while she was at work."

"And nobody bothered with the fact that your house doesn't look at all renovated?" John asked.

"You should have seen it when we bought it," Mulder huffed. "Did a fair share of work on it too, but mostly just in the areas we used. New kitchen, bathroom, new floors for the bedroom; bits and pieces."

"So what's down here then?" Monica asked. "How'd you get fresh air?"

"There's a battery-operated filter," Mulder explained. "You'll see. It's SO cool."

"Somebody's proud," Monica teased with a grin, letting her fingers touch the cold stone at her side as they walked. "This is pretty amazing. It doesn't feel real."

"You feel that too?" Mulder asked. "I thought it was just me. Keep thinking I'm going to wake up in the desert and it'll be a month ago and I'll realise we're not even close."

"We're definitely here," she assured him.

Five minutes later, Mulder started running ahead.

"Hey!" John shouted. "Mulder get back here!"

"Just around the corner!" he yelled over his shoulder.

"I'll get him," Gibson drawled, unimpressed by Mulder's spontaneity.

"No, let me," John insisted, bolting after Mulder in the dark. He caught up quickly and wrapped a hand around Mulder's shirt, pulling him away from the door he was fast approaching. "HEY!" he shouted. "Stop!"

"I gotta see inside," Mulder insisted urgently, his eyes glazed and frightened.

"I know, I know," John assured him. "But we all go in there together. You're not goin' in alone and you're not shutting us out either. We wait for Monica and Gibson, do you understand?"

"Okay," Mulder sighed, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to calm down. The logical part of Mulder's heart knew that had she been alive and well beyond the door Scully would have heard them coming and made her own presence known. Mulder knew he would be faced either with a dead body or an empty room, and he was not sure which one he wanted to see more. He could not flip out on John, Gibson and Monica before time. He had to stay focussed long enough to absorb the truth, whatever it may be.

Then he could lose it.

"Okay," he repeated. "I'm fine I just, I just need to know. It's been three months John."

"Three months leading up to this moment," John confirmed. "Just relax."

"We're here!" Monica announced, hurrying around the final bend with Gibson beside her. She put her hands on her hips and stared at the two of them, her brown eyes serious and calm, though the front teeth scraping along her bottom lip was enough of a giveaway that she was just as nervous as the rest of them. "What are we waiting for? Open it Fox."

Mulder slid the key into the final lock, and was about to turn it when he stopped and turned back around to face them all. Monica growled in frustration as Gibson chuckled.

"I just want to say," he added, clearly procrastinating though the sentiment was real. "Thanks for letting me do this and coming with me. I know it's taken a really long time and we've had to put up with each other and all that sand and we could have been in sunny Mexico long ago but I...I really-" Mulder stopped when Monica stepped forward and rested a steadying hand on his broad chest.

"Fox Mulder, if you do not open this door-" she warned, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "We all want this just as much as you," she added more gently.

"You couldn't possibly," he whispered, tears stinging his eyes as he swallowed heavily. Suddenly it hurt to breathe. It felt as though his heart was slowing down. This is it, he thought as Monica pulled away and gestured towards the key in the lock. This was it.


	7. Chapter 7

Six

Mulder held his breath as he pushed the door open. The room itself was large enough to be comfortable in a run-down motel room kind of way. A small desk was against one wall beside the filter, and another stand beside the desk was loaded with gas lamps and battery-powered torches. Shelves bracketed against the opposite wall contained everything from food, water and vitamins to first aid, matches and batteries. Crossword books and novels filled one entire shelf. Underneath and alongside the shelving were fifteen eskies, each with enough food and water for two people rationing carefully to survive for one month. Ammunition and weapons were also stored in locked boxes at the very top of the shelves.

It was a basic but complete survivalist bunker. Scully had supervised the entire operation to ensure the provisions there would keep them as healthy as possible should they need to spend a long amount of time underground. There was enough floor space for basic exercises like sit-ups or jumping around, and Mulder remembered cracking a joke about the sort of exercise they could both indulge in thanks to the comfortable bed they had set up. No expense had been spared, though Mulder suspected the reality of actually living there was far from penthouse luxury.

His shoes crunched underfoot as he stepped into the bunker, and he turned his torch downwards. He was standing on a concrete base covered with sand, though not very much considering what he knew to be overhead. He looked upwards with the help of his light. There were no signs of damage to the metal-plated ceiling and no sand appeared to be trickling in from anywhere. His only conclusion was that it had been tracked in by Scully as she made trips above-ground. He hoped she had waited long enough. Gibson had said about a month, and they had waited a week on top of that. None of them had gotten sick, but what if Scully had left earlier?

Mulder's train of thought was thankfully interrupted by the striking of a match behind him. John, Monica and Gibson had come into the bunker behind him and Monica was leaning over to light one of the gas lamps. It cast a dim yet penetrating glow over the room. It was eerie and silent, and the air was stale. Their torches were turned off.

Mulder crouched down to examine the filter by the desk on the other side of his friends. It looked in good order. He flipped the switch and it gurgled to life, humming steadily once it had warmed up. It was strange to hear any sort of mechanical noise. It had been months since they had heard anything more mechanical than the tick of their analogue watches, which in and of itself had been enough to almost drive Mulder mad with frustration. Time was no longer relevant, and could be measured only by the little date on some of their watches and the size of Monica's belly.

"Got a bin for the match?" she asked as he stood up. He nodded silently, pointing to the three large barrels in the far corner of the room. They were black, cylindrical and imposing, but far enough out of the way that it was hard to really notice them in the soft light. There was a small twist-latch on the top of each which would allow the bin to be opened without needing to remove the entire lid. The opening would allow a can or bottle-sized piece of rubbish through it easily.

"Is it going to smell?" John asked before Monica could act.

"What do you reckon?" Mulder scoffed. Monica, as usual, remained calm and rapped her knuckles lightly into each.

"It's all right," she declared, gesturing to the right bin. "I think this one is empty or near-empty. Hold your breath." She opened the lid quickly and dropped the match in, twisting the lock back into place within seconds. She then waited a couple of seconds before allowing herself to breathe. She smelt nothing but stale air and knew she had picked correctly. "Nice to see I've still got it," she added with a smile, turning back to them.

Mulder turned his attention back to the desk he was still standing beside. The wooden chair was pushed as far in as possible, but the nearby lamp had illuminated something he had missed very much. He reached down and removed a long, orange hair from the edge of the chair, holding it up and testing its length and strength with his fingers. Her hair was so thick and soft, he remembered. He loved the way it got all wavy when it rained. He loved the way it had lightened with age. Age and the occasional blonde highlight, he conceded with a nostalgic smile.

Mulder resisted the urge to pocket the hair. Scully would think that was way too creepy. Instead he let it go and it drifted back to the desk as though in slow motion.

"I just noticed somethin'," John stated, daring to break the respectful silence Mulder had unconsciously requested.

"Yes John?" he asked, his voice soft and emotional.

"Did you have clothes and stuff here? You got everything else, but what about toiletries and underwear and stuff?"

"Under the bed," Mulder answered, looking at it. It was the first time he had really allowed himself to 'see' the piece of furniture which took up a large portion of the room. Finally, Mulder gave himself permission to look at the double bed. Scully was not in it, which was a good thing. The covers were neatly drawn, and it looked as though she had cleaned up before leaving. Just to be certain, Mulder dropped to his knees and reached under the thin, cotton valance. He withdrew a large wooden box with an open top, which he had built to fit exactly underneath the proportions of the bed.

Inside was one purple backpack with black strapping. He lifted it out onto the floor, his friends backing away to give him room. The sound of the heavy-duty zipper echoed despite the hum of the filter. Inside the pack were his belongings he had chosen to store; clothes and toiletries.

"Christmas comes but once a year," he quipped, more to himself than the others. "She has left," he then declared with certainty. "Her pack is gone. It was identical to mine, but orange."

"What was in it?" Monica asked.

"Whatever she could carry," he answered with a sigh, sitting on his heels and looking at the bed from mattress-height. A few more orange hairs caught his attention. He pushed the box back under the bed and then shoved his pack out of the way, allowing him to then get up and perch on the quilt. His hand rested in the centre of the bed, as though he was trying to feel her. If she had been there, he might have rested his hand on her hip, and she would have turned to him and smiled a lazy, content smile.

'Time to go?'

After they had fled, while they had run and before they had settled, he had disturbed her rest in that manner so many times. He had never had to say anything; one look shared and they both had always just known. Mulder knew he would never find that connection with another person. Not in what was left of his life. And in the next, that person would still be Scully. It had to be. He could never really let her go. He wanted her for always.

Mulder frowned when he pressed down on the quilt only to be met by something much firmer than the pliant mattress he had been expecting. He stood and pulled the covers back somewhat theatrically, tossing them to the floor and revealing the mother-load of messages left behind.

For him.

The first item that caught his attention was a copy of the Bible, the Old and New Testaments bound together with leather.

'No survivalist camp is complete without it, Scully.'

'It's not complete without Playboy either, Mulder. I still say no to your porn.'

'I won't need Playboy. You'll be 'right there'! Wait until you see the bed I ordered.'

She had rolled her eyes and turned away from him then, but before she had thought of a decent comeback he had rushed her from behind, planting a loud, wet kiss on her cheek once she was securely in his grasp. She had giggled and leant back into him, raising a coy eyebrow and smiling curiously.

'Does it have Magic Fingers, Mulder?'

'No, but I do.'

Mulder let his memory fade as he opened the cover of the Bible with a cautious fingertip. He had to hunch slightly from his standing position. She had written in it, and the sight of her familiar cursive broke his heart.

My touchstone.

'You are my rock,' he had told her once. More than once. His constant, his touchstone.

When he had first spoken those words to her, she had pressed her lips to his forehead in a long, lingering kiss that had left him speechless. She had been so close to him that day, resting her forehead against his, sharing his space, his pain. Their souls had been joined in that moment just as they always were when he felt their foreheads touch and their noses align. There was a spirituality in the way they connected that Mulder had never had with another, and yet it had always felt so familiar and natural.

He knew instinctively that in the moment she had written those two words on the inside of the Bible she had remembered that same memory. She had brought sad news with her that day, but time had healed any pain he had felt. Now he only remembered that moment, and the way she had smiled at him when he had woken to find her coaxing him back to her. It was a blurred, disjointed memory but it was there. She had brought him back as gently yet as persistently as the shore caressed the coast on a calm summer's day.

Oh Scully, Mulder thought with a sigh. I'd give anything to see you roll your eyes at that inadequate analogy! I'd give anything to see you smile just once more before I die.

Mulder let his eyes leave the Bible, for there were other items that called to him more. He was simply afraid to reach for the paper with his name on it, which rested on top of a thick, spiral notebook.

Fox. She had addressed her note to Fox, not Mulder. She called him by his first name so rarely, and it had never, ever been used by her in anger. For so long he had associated his name and its use with harsh, pained tones; from his parents, from particularly brash or harsh ex-lovers. He had never seen his name as one that commanded respect or genuine affection.

The first time Scully had used it she had sounded so young. She had been young. He had heard genuine affection in her voice and it had scared him. He had brushed her off, unsettled by the way his stomach had turned with surprise and perhaps desire. Not in a carnal sense, but a desire to be known by her, to be accepted and trusted by her. He had liked her and had decided his new partner was worth keeping around, for her intelligence and company, for the passion he could see behind her professionally guarded expression.

He could not have let her go on calling him Fox. She would have eventually used it in anger, and he would have pushed her away. In looking back on that moment, he had already figured out that even though he had tried at the start, he had never really wanted to push her away. He had wanted to share his beliefs with her. He still did.

But Scully had started calling him Fox again, after his release and their escape, first from the military prison and then from New Mexico, nearly ten years since they had met. She only ever called him Fox when they were intimate, in bed or sharing a quiet conversation, and contrary to all the hatred and disappointment he had associated with his name in his youth, whenever it passed her lips it was spoken with love, passion, respect, and trust.

Yeah, real trustworthy 'Fox', he taunted silently. She could really depend on you in the end, eh?

Mulder lifted the note from the bed and unfolded it. He remained standing with his back turned to the three people standing behind him. The note was a single sheet of notepaper folded into quarters, and she had written with a black pen.

Mulder,

If you are reading this, know that I am very, very pissed off with you! Do you KNOW how long I've been down here? That being said, I don't think you will ever read this, and I'm not mad at all, my darling. I should never have let you go that night. I was too tired to stop you.

I've left you my Bible (I took the Playboy, so there) and my journal I have kept down here. I want you to have both. I had a LOT of free time. I have explored the town and everyone is dead, everyone but Yours Truly. I can only assume you are amongst them. Still, a sliver of hope is allowing me to write this.

I am headed to DC. I will follow the main roads. I do not think it will be dangerous, for I see no signs of life at all. Even the trees are gone. Is this how you felt when you made that wish for peace and life disappeared from around you?

Anyway, I want to find mom, so DC it is. When I think about where I might end my life to join you in the next, I can think of nowhere more fitting than our basement – if it still exists. I do not know how long the trip will take me or what may happen along the way.

I just want to be with you Mulder. It's all I ever wanted. Take care of my journal, for it is my heart that I am leaving behind for you. God, that sounds pathetic doesn't it? What would dad say? Hey, maybe when I see you next, you'll have that peg-leg. Can't wait.

Ps. I am taking our photos but I left Samantha for you upstairs; in my haste I forgot to bring her with me. I'm sorry. I have left you one of me. Hopefully it will make you smile.

I love you Fox. Thank you for sharing yourself with me.

Forever yours,

Dana.

Mulder sank to his knees on the cold floor and let his forehead rest weakly on the mattress. Loud, strangled sobs fought their way from inside him, clawing at his throat and blocking his sinuses with tears. His abdomen clenched in pain and the letter fell from his hands as his fingers clutched at the bedspread. It still smelled like her.

Monica approached Mulder and leant over only to retrieve the abandoned letter. She then hurriedly backed away and John followed. They huddled near the lamp to read, but Gibson remained a silent observer. He had no use for the letter; he had heard it in Mulder's mind as he had read, though he had heard Scully's voice as Mulder had heard her. He had heard her part with him one last time.

'When I think about where I might end my life to join you in the next. Take care of my journal. It is my heart. For you.'

She was dead, Mulder thought, allowing the words of her letter to settle at the forefront of his mind. She was dead. It had been three months since they had come. She had left long ago, and it would not have taken a very long time to walk to DC if she had been healthy; maybe a week if she slept regularly at night. She was dead.

Dead. Dead. Suicide. Dead.

"I'm so sorry Mulder," Monica whispered eventually. Mulder did not know how long he had been crying or how long since he had stopped. His tongue felt swollen and his throat ached; he could not speak. "What photo did she leave?" Monica asked.

Mulder knew to return to the Bible. He sat on the bed facing the door but kept his head bowed as he fingered the delicate pages of the book now resting in his lap. He knew she had taken comfort from its words, the origins of those words irrelevant to her in the end.

A page was folded and his heart lurched in his chest. Opening to the spot, the photo was turned down, and Psalm 27 was circled. He put the photo beside him for afterwards. He knew instinctively Scully had wanted him to read first, and he was surprised to hear his own scratchy, broken voice as he read passages of the text aloud as he quickly skimmed it for any hidden meaning.

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Though a host encamp against me, my heart shall not fear. Though war rise against me, yet I will be confident. For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will set me high upon a rock. I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage."

A long period of silence enclosed him as he finished and then reread the words silently.

He found the meaning he had sought easily. The war they had fought for so many years, the shelter he had built for her, her concealment underground, her freedom, and finally her message to him to stay strong for her, for them.

She had asked him not give up on the goodness of people, to not give up on life, but in a way that made no sense to Mulder. She had gone to DC thinking about ending her own life, so what was she doing telling him to have faith? Where was her faith? Had she really left it all behind on the slim chance that he would return to seek it? Had she taken no comfort from the very words she had intended to comfort him?

"Did she want you to read that?" John asked. Mulder nodded, folding the page of the Bible back down and shutting the book. He would ponder Scully's motivations in private later, he decided, though he knew instinctively by her recommended reading she had not left in a truly suicidal state. She had been contemplative and sad, and she was stubborn when she decided to do something, but in leaving that note she had reassured him that at the time of writing it, she had not yet been ready for the end.

He chewed on his bottom lip cautiously as he reached for the picture, almost forgotten amidst the confusion he felt as her partner and as a psychologist. What had she meant? Had she been serious? She had taken her pack, so he knew she had the means to end her life with her, but to then proclaim her confidence against the war to him through a Psalm was a direct contradiction to her own written intention to surrender.

Mulder shut his eyes and took a deep breath, ridding his mind of all thoughts, before simultaneously turning the picture over in his hand and opening his eyes.

He started to laugh. Scully did not have many photos of her past, but her mother had given her a handful when they had met briefly in New York to assure her of their safety despite the vanishing act and long absence.

The photo in front of him was beautiful. Scully was perhaps only four, and her blue overalls and white t-shirt were smeared with brightly coloured paint. She had a smudge of pink on her white chin, and her plump, red lips were pursed in mock anger. Her dirty hands were up by her head and in a clawed position. Mulder remembered seeing the photo in the album. 'Dana, the lion cub,' he had teased. But she had grown up to be a pretty imposing lioness, in his mind; fiercely protective, intelligent, a hunter, a fighter, frightening in anger and a compassionate, humorous preserver. A preserver of his life.

She had picked the perfect picture. He could almost hear the little growl from between her tiny lips. He could see the tilt of those lips and the twinkle in her blue eyes, which at that age seemed so wide and large against her small face. Her red hair was wild and curly about her head. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. So cute, he sighed.

Four year old Dana had been teasing even then, playing up to the camera, amused by her mother's interest and her own abilities, uninhibited and absolutely covered in paint.

She really must have been a handful back then, he thought. Poor Maggie. He marvelled at both the wisdom and innocence in Scully's expression, and he allowed himself the brief fantasy that had their lives been completely different, he might have been staring not at a picture of his partner in her youth, but of their beloved daughter.

"Can I see it?" Gibson asked suddenly. They were the first words he had spoken in a long time. Mulder realised Gibson had been listening to all his thoughts, and was probably desperately intrigued. Reluctantly, Mulder parted with the photo. Gibson swallowed a laugh when he saw it and quickly handed it to Monica. John looked on beside her.

"That's the most adorable thing I've ever seen," Monica gushed, her maternal instincts in high gear. "Look at that curly red hair and that face. Oh Mulder, she's beautiful." Monica handed the photo back with a wide but sad smile. "Is it all right if I sit down?" she asked. Mulder had a brief moment of clarity in which he realised his three friends had been standing the whole time, for however long that had been.

"Jeez, of course Mon," he insisted, gesturing to the end of the bed. "Hey John, that desk drawer you're near, what's in it?" The drawer slid out easily on its runner and John hummed thoughtfully as he observed.

"A big pencil case, it looks full, and some scattered sharpening from pencils. Uh, there's a calculator, a few clocks and a calendar."

"Is it marked?" he asked. Scully had not mentioned time in her letter. John retrieved the cheap paper calendar and looked it over closer to the lamplight.

"Yeah, it's marked off for nearly five weeks after it happened, but I wouldn't be surprised if she lost track of a day or two down here all on her own. Why'd all the clocks be in the drawer? How did you know?"

"Watching time can make you crazy," Mulder sighed. "Let's uh, get all this stuff back upstairs. She's not coming back. I'd rather open this book um...upstairs."

xxx 

That night Mulder looked up from his position on the couch when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Monica's lean legs appeared in his torchlight wrapped in familiar denim and she approached him cautiously, one of her hands caressing the swell of her abdomen.

"Still up?" she asked. "I thought I'd come down to throw a blanket over you."

"I'm reading," he sighed, leaning back against the cushions and covering his face with large hands. He dragged his fingers over his cheeks and through his thick, brown beard in an effort to wake himself up. "John asleep?"

"He could sleep through a hurricane. Me getting up is no big deal," she assured him. "I, on the other hand, am having a bit more trouble."

"Oh?" Mulder asked, concerned as she sat down next to him and rested her hands back on her belly where her shirt had ridden up. "Anything more serious than heartburn?"

"No heartburn. He's moving around a lot, that's all. It's distracting." Mulder laughed. Monica had been referring to the baby as a boy for about a month, and she seemed content and positive about the whole process despite the lack of any medical exams past an initial consultation prior to the invasion. Gibson had not even known she had been pregnant. Neither he nor Mulder had been prepared for that news, delivered in haste. Mulder hoped Monica's instincts were right and all was well. For all their sakes. "So how is the book?" she asked seriously, gesturing to the spiral notebook now closed in his lap.

"Thorough," he answered. "Scully always wrote thorough reports, she liked her written records and she told me she kept a diary when she was young for a while. In this one, she's tried to keep track of dates. At the start it's mostly letters to me about what she witnessed, and how we left things. How she wanted it to be instead of how it was. There are stories from her childhood she never told me. Funny things. Things that changed her. Then it turns into a recount of all these cases we worked together, sharing her memories of those experiences and telling me things she might not have had the chance to say."

"I see," Monica whispered sadly, shivering with grief.

"She got pretty sad for a long while," Mulder shared. "She was lonely, but she was healthy. She kept records of what she ate and drank and how she felt. And then, when she got the courage to go outside about a month in, she made drawings, sketches of the sand and the bodies. She wrote down medical notes, possible theories. She tried to find explanations for what she had seen, to reconcile it with what she knew. This book, it's like...a mixture of everything she is. It's beautiful and smart, but she was so lonely."

"Could I see the drawings?" Monica asked, not game to ask to read any of Scully's private thoughts. Mulder nodded, sliding closer to her on the couch. He hoped she understood why he had to keep holding the journal. Scully had entrusted it to him as the most precious part of herself; he would never let it go.

He let Monica flick through various entries, poems, doodles and stories Scully had shared with him. Towards the end it was as though Scully had suddenly remembered she had coloured and lead pencils at her disposal, for the small pen doodles in the margins had become large drawings, in colour and black and white.

"I didn't know Dana could draw," Monica whispered, staring at a picture of the house amidst sand. A female figure was in the foreground, sketching, and though her back was partially turned and her head bowed, it was an incredible likeness. Scully had drawn herself into the picture as though she had been outside herself. Perhaps that was a reflection of how she had really felt, Monica recognised.

"I didn't know either," Mulder admitted softly, his voice filled with shame. "I never asked." Monica flicked the page.

"Is that the photo from upstairs?" she asked. Mulder nodded. Scully had copied the photo in a full page colour pencil sketch. He had never seen a more welcome sight in all his life. It was a near perfect, though casual, replication. Scully was beaming at him from under her Knicks cap, and his arms were around her. He was smiling too. "You both look so happy," Monica commented gently, noting the words down the bottom.

'Sorry I took the real thing Fox...and the Knicks rule all.'

"Yes," Mulder hissed, his eyes and nose stinging. He had smiled the first few times he had seen the picture and read the apology, but tears were fast approaching. He tried to focus on Monica, on letting her in. He needed to talk. "We were getting there, still running at that stage, but we were very happy. It was an emotional time. You wanna see my favourite?" He sounded so hopeful and innocent Monica could not refuse him. Mulder was not easily drawn into conversation about Scully, he held his emotions close, and in making such an offer he was giving her a gift she would treasure forever.

She smiled, nodding and allowing him to turn the page. The drawing was on the very last page. Monica could not believe Scully had filled more than two hundred pages in just one month. She had obviously said every last thing she had needed to say, the completion inadequate only because she would never say those things to his face, and because she would never know that he came back for her.

Monica did not fight her tears as she looked at the last drawing. It was so simple and small. It took up only a quarter of the page, top left. Using lead pencil, Scully had sketched two figures holding one another. The tall man's head was bowed and his hand cradled the shorter woman's head to his chest. Her face had been drawn facing away, her long hair loose beneath his fingers. There were no distinctive facial features visible, but Monica could see from the posture of the couple and the way they had been drawn that it was Mulder and Scully. Even without colour to redden the woman's hair it looked like them. Monica could feel Scully as she observed the sketch. She could see her drawing it.

Around the drawing, Scully had concluded her journal with the neatly written lyrics to Amazing Grace, penned in black ink. Towards the end, a patch of the paper was slightly uneven and Monica let her fingertip graze it. It felt tougher than the rest of the pages. Water damage, she determined; just a drop or two smudging the final words to the song.

"I wonder," Mulder whispered, his voice pained. He had seen Monica touch the spot he had also touched before she had come downstairs. "If she cried when she wrote this."

"If we are," Monica answered. "Then I think she did. I think she cried a lot."

"She wrote that a few times," he admitted. She could barely hear him. "I lost her Monica. I lost her."

Monica helped him close the book as he broke down, not wanting it damaged by any more tears. She wrapped an arm around Mulder and held him tightly, pressing her own face to his shoulder and weeping softly against his warm shirt. They cried together for several minutes until Mulder ran short of breath and Monica short of tears. She tried to cover a sudden yawn but failed, and Mulder smiled at her tenderly.

"You should go to bed mommy," he reasoned.

"I feel uncomfortable in your bed," Monica mumbled, blushing. "It's her bed too. I can't sleep there."

"Well I'm not slipping between the sheets with Doggett," he teased. Monica only stared at him helplessly, her brown eyes wide and begging. "Okay," he continued. "You can have the couch, and I'll sleep on the floor."

"Mulder, no!" she gasped. "No, I-I-I'll go back upstairs, I-"

"It's okay, I'm up," Gibson interrupted from above them. "Monica, you have the spare room if you want, and I'll sleep with John. Just be warned the mattress isn't very good."

"Thank you Gibson," Mulder called only a second before Gibson disappeared to his new room. "I think we woke him."

"Poor kid," Monica sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "You know I'm surprised you even have a spare room."

"It's a dodgy single Scully sometimes crashed in if she was on call. Apparently it was just too hard to drag herself out of her real, ultra-comfortable bed at two in the morning."

"I can imagine," Monica groaned. Wasn't it about that time now, she wondered? "Will you be all right down here by yourself?" she asked. Mulder nodded. "I mean it," she warned, though her voice was soft. "Get some sleep."

xxx 

Gibson was sitting at Mulder and Scully's kitchen bench the next morning, watching John and Monica prepare breakfast, which consisted of tomato soup heated on the kitchen's gas stove. They rarely got hot meals and everyone was excited. Everyone but Mulder, Gibson knew, who could not have cared less. Monica was nibbling on a cracker as she leant against the sink supervising John's stirring, when Gibson finally spoke up.

"No," he stated, staring at her. John turned around in surprise and Monica grimaced. She had that determined look in her eye, John realised. Whatever it was Gibson was against, Monica was going down fighting. "No way," Gibson emphasised.

"Oh come on," Monica argued. "What's the harm?"

"What's the harm?" Gibson scoffed. "It's insane. He's not going to find her Monica."

"How do you know?" she pressed, gesturing outside the kitchen window to where Mulder was walking aimlessly around his desert backyard. "Look at him! He needs this."

"It would take too much time, and Scully wrote that letter nearly two months ago, probably while we were busy first voting on whether or not to come here."

"Hang on," John interrupted. "Mon, you're not suggesting we go to DC are ya?"

"No," she replied, surprising him. "I think you and Mulder should go. It would only take a few weeks. Gibson and I can stay here. It will give us all some space, and John I know you have your differences with Mulder, but you'd be helping him. Look at him okay? He's like a lost dog wandering around out there. He has no idea what to do with himself."

"We should head south as planned-" he started, but was quickly cut off.

"We'd never make it," she huffed. "I'm six months pregnant John. It took us maybe more than two months to get here, nearly twice as long as we thought it would because I was so sick at the start. I'm not sick anymore but it will take that same amount of time to get back, maybe even more, seeing as how I'm not as fast as I used to be and I'll just get slower. It would be much easier to make that trip with a baby on the outside. I think we should stay here or near here until then, and since that's decided, it makes sense for you and Mulder to clear out for a while and just, I don't know, get some headspace."

"Look I like the guy Monica," he replied. "And I like the way you just 'decided' all of that, but I don't wanna go with Mulder to look for Scully. Why can't Gibson go with him? Gibson is his mate."

"Gibson needs space too," Monica reminded him softly, causing John to stare at Gibson, who blushed. "Don't forget a few years ago he spent months alone with Mulder in what I can imagine was only a slightly more optimistic frame of mind. You and Mulder are also the strongest and fittest. You would make much better time without us." John sighed.

"Food's ready anyway. You better go and bring him in then."

xxx 

Monica smiled hopefully at Mulder after explaining her idea.

"Me and John," he stated thoughtfully, eyeing John briefly. John looked more caught off-guard than unwilling.

"Yeah," Monica continued, as positively as possible. "You never know Mulder. Coming here got you so much. You might find something else. Gibson and I will be fine here. It's not a long walk to town considering, and Scully said everyone was dead, so we shouldn't run into any trouble."

"You know the consequences of what you're suggesting though, right?" Mulder asked. "It means that me, John and Gibson, when you went into labour, we'd be...it."

"Pretty sure I'd be there too," she teased. "I'm not afraid. I trust you all, and everything will be just fine."

"None of us knows anything about having kids," Gibson stated cautiously. "If something went wrong we wouldn't know what to do. However...Monica is right. I don't think we would make it across the border before then anyway, and certainly not to safety."

"Yes!" Monica declared with a wide grin. "So I win? That was way easy!" She laughed as John rolled his eyes. Even Mulder smirked, and it was the first real reaction he had given them all day. "So the two of you can leave tomorrow then," she added.

"When did you become the boss?" John teased. Monica pressed her lips together coyly.

"Oh please," she hummed. "But there is a condition, Mulder."

"What's that?" Mulder asked curiously. Monica levelled him with an insightful, serious gaze not dissimilar to the one Gibson was displaying.

"Only John takes a weapon," she told him. "And you come home. Back here. Alive."

"Monica-"

"Alive," she repeated insistently. "Am I understood?" Mulder sighed, but nodded. She was right, he realised. He had started this mess; he had to see it through and live with the consequences. Scully had followed him for years. It was time he followed her.


	8. Chapter 8

Seven

 _Washington DC – September 2005_

Scully sat on the back porch of the house she had occupied with Shannon, Skinner and Sarah for the past month. There were no bodies in the home, which meant the creepiness factor of stepping around human remains did not factor into their daily lives. It had taken a good two weeks for her to be able to carry any sort of weight in her left hand thanks to the deep cut on her wrist, and Shannon had delayed their departure under the guise of wanting Scully to be stronger.

It was mostly true; Scully had needed to put on weight and be able to lift her backpack onto her back with either hand. She had needed the full month to get to that stage. She had also needed a month of peaceful existence to recover from her emotional 'episode', as she liked to call it. It was not something she had ever had to deal with before, and she had needed time to accept that moment of weakness for what it had been; an expression of the deep pain she still carried with her, an expression of unbearable loss and regret and shame that would never leave her. She just had to live with it. She had lived with it.

There was no reason for her to feel ashamed that it had happened. It did not make her a weaker person, or somebody less worthy of life. She remembered everything about that night. It was a rapid, detailed blur of tears and anguish. She had no memory of what the pain had felt like, but she had a good idea considering what she knew she had been driven to, and how she still felt. She felt as though she had a grapple hook stuck in her gut, and she believed that for the rest of her life she would carry it with her. She believed she needed to carry it with her. She had tried to let it go but she couldn't. She didn't want to.

She still needed the memory of that night close because, of what she did remember, her clearest memory was of Mulder's embrace.

Scully looked up as the screen door clattered behind her. She smiled at the sight of Skinner's tall, lean, young niece. Sarah was twenty-five, with wavy, blonde hair and brown eyes. Her skin was tanned, and she was dressed in sunglasses, jeans and a t-shirt.

"Dana, are you out here?" she called, her voice gentle and curious.

"I'm here," Scully assured her, reaching an arm out and towards Sarah's outstretched hand. "I'm sitting down on the steps. Careful."

"Ah," Sarah smirked, sitting down and shuffling forward as Scully took hold of an elbow and guided her. "That I can do. Walter and Shannon are inside arguing."

"Mm, I came out for some peace and quiet," Scully mumbled.

"I can go if-"

"No, no," she insisted more gently, holding onto Sarah's hand. "It's okay. Stay with me. I'd like the company. It's just been a...an unusual month."

"It's been an unusual three months more like. And I thought I had problems before this!"

"You're doing really well," Scully complimented. Another reason they had stayed so long was Sarah. Her blindness was absolute and it had been hard enough for her to get used to navigating her way around the house. She was nervous. She had needed to hone skills she had never previously had to rely on, and it would be very different wandering the desert. They would be there with her the whole time, but she herself wanted to be competent, and Scully could not blame her for that.

She was a quiet young woman, and had not been very talkative. Scully supposed it was hard to trust a stranger who was no more than a voice or a touch, but she had sensed Sarah warming to her gradually. The girl certainly knew of her history with Skinner and Shannon. Skinner had informed her early that he had told Sarah the long, complicated story while they had been underground. They'd had the time, after all.

Not that Scully had been much more forthcoming. She had barely had a personal conversation with Sarah, and she was aware that she was craving one. After taking the time to be alone with her thoughts and to heal, Scully needed to start reconnecting with the people she would have to trust, and with the people who would need to trust her.

"My uncle was more a father to me sometimes than my own dad," Sarah confessed. Scully nodded, savouring another piece of information she had only suspected but never known. "I know he won't leave me here. I'm adjusting, slowly. You've been great, Dana. I always say thank you but I don't think I ever told you...Walter never really talked about his job at the FBI but I remember him cursing a couple of his agents, giving him trouble over the phone and the like. Mulder and Scully. I only ever knew your names."

"That's us," Scully sighed, smiling sadly as she allowed herself to watch the young woman beside her. She looked relaxed, friendly. The only indication something was wrong was the way she gripped Scully's hand, still not comfortable with the fact her life had been reduced to darkness despite the three months that had elapsed.

"What do you look like?" Sarah asked suddenly. It was the first interest she had ever shown in Scully personally. "Are you pretty?"

"Used to be," Scully teased, laughing when Sarah scoffed.

"Spare me the 'I was young and attractive once too' lecture I got from mom. Tell me what you look like. You sound very sophisticated and uh, classy, that's the word."

"Okay," Scully sighed, happy for the distraction and the opportunity to cultivate somewhat of a friendship with her old boss' niece. After all, she had only been sitting outside staring at sand and trying not to think of Mulder. She did that every day. "I'm short. I come up to your shoulder. We can't all look like supermodels you know."

"I'm no model," Sarah assured her. "Easily the dorkiest girl in my history class."

"Archaeology, right?"

"Yep," she laughed. "My parents were so pissed off when I told them that was my major. I think mom had her heart set on me being some sort of beauty queen. So you changed the topic. You know what I look like and that's not too fair. So keep going, Doctor."

"I've got long hair," Scully continued, guiding Sarah's hand up to where her hair sat against her shoulder. "It was red when I was a girl but it's faded now. It's more orange."

"How old are you?" Sarah asked as she let her nervous fingers run the seemingly never-ending length of Scully's greasy, sandy hair before returning her hands to her lap.

"I'm forty. I've got blue eyes and fair skin and the only jewellery I've got is a small, gold crucifix around my neck that my mom bought me when I was little."

"You sound beautiful," Sarah assured her. "And Mulder, what did he look like?" Scully laughed.

"He looked...not at all like the man I pictured myself with," she conceded. "But he was very attractive. Tall, brown hair and eyes. He was a good runner. Why the questions?"

"I don't know. I've known you a long time now without ever seeing you. I thought it would be pertinent to actually ask so that I could picture you... How is your wrist?"

"It'll be fine," Scully sighed, glancing at the thin bandage still strapped tightly around the wrist for added support and safety. "It wasn't even really very deep, in the end."

"Yes it was. I was there when they brought you in, and I heard Walter and Shannon talking about it a few times afterwards. One of my friends killed herself while we were in high school by slitting her wrists," Sarah whispered. Scully stared at her in shock. "I suppose we weren't best friends, but we hung out in the same group. None of us saw it coming. I still don't know how she could have inflicted that sort of pain on herself."

"I don't really remember doing it," Scully mumbled, blushing at her white lie. "But the best way I can describe it is...I was in so much pain, on the inside, that it was like giving myself permission to release that. Sounds kind of stupid coming from a doctor huh," she whispered sadly. "But I suppose even doctors have the odd breakdown."

"Do you think about doing it again?" Sarah asked worriedly.

"Not like that," she promised. "I...have another means to end my life should something happen, but I'm feeling okay Sarah. I promise."

"I wanted to talk to you earlier but I...I know what we all went through at school after Kate died and I wanted to give you space. But we're both doing better now. So I, I just hope you're not too mad at me for not talking much to you. I got the impression you-"

"It's okay," Scully interrupted. "I know how it feels to need to be silent for a while. I did appreciate the space, but I'm glad we're having this conversation. Before I came here, I hadn't had a real conversation in a very long time."

"It's nice to have someone to talk to isn't it."

"Yeah," Scully mumbled. "I'd forgotten what that was like. So what are they arguing about inside now?"

"The usual. When to leave, which way to go. Can I ask you something?" Scully nodded even though Sarah couldn't see her.

"Sure," she added.

"Shannon. I, I mean I like her. She spent a lot of time with us down in the cellar, and she spent a lot of time with me here when I had nightmares or questions or when I needed help with things that embarrassed Uncle Walter. But I can tell from her voice, I mean I think she's very attractive, very persuasive, and I know Walter trusts her. I mean they have some sort of relationship, I suppose, but he hasn't told me what that is. She came to DC specifically to save him. She threw herself over him when it happened."

"I see," Scully whispered. She remembered Shannon's words. There was a history there.

"She told me she met you before. Do you trust her? I mean 'really' trust her? I know she's...she's not fully human. I know what those other types like her do."

"Walter told me he told you those things," Scully assured her. "You said you like her?"

"I do, she's very nice. But I was told these people didn't have human emotions and that they could be used as killing machines in war, and neither of them ever denied that about Shannon. So...Is she faking her emotions with us? Is Walter just blinded by attraction?"

"I don't think their relationship is romantic," Scully replied. "Not that I've observed. There is, however, a lot of respect between them. Shannon does have emotions. When I met her she told us it was what set her apart from the rest. She did not like what they had made her into, and for the brief time in which I knew her... She did help us. I trust her-"

"Ladies," Shannon announced, interrupting the conversation and opening the screen door to join them on the veranda. "My ears were burning. I thought I should come and see if I could add to your discussion."

"Sorry Shannon," Sarah apologised quickly, sensing the tall, curvaceous brunette behind her. "I'm still confused about all this. Dana was just-"

"Helping fill in some blanks," Scully finished quickly, reaching out to squeeze Sarah's hand in support, silently assuring her not to worry. They weren't in any danger. Sarah had not been outside much, and from their position on the steps Shannon towered above them, her presence imposing and always strong. Scully knew Sarah could sense that.

Shannon shrugged casually, walking around them and leaning against the bottom of the steps' railing, changing the dynamics of the setting and offering Scully a knowing smile.

"It's getting a bit dark for sitting out here," she mentioned. "We're going to leave tomorrow if that's okay with you both."

"I'm ready," Sarah assured her confidently.

"Me too," Scully sighed. "A part of me hates to leave but I'll be glad to get away. Have you decided on a route then?"

"Inland," Shannon replied. "Hopefully it will be quieter."

"Quieter than all this?" Sarah asked with a laugh, spreading her arms to demonstrate their surroundings. Shannon chuckled but did not reply. They all knew what Shannon had meant. She had meant safer. Scully had no arguments if that was the case.

"Sarah and I are packed," she stated. "Is the raft ready?"

"Yeah," Shannon replied with a smirk. They had nicknamed the cart 'the raft' because it would hopefully glide along the sand in much the same way as a raft glided downstream, though Shannon would be the current. It was heavy and made from wood taken from the floorboards and sheds of homes. It was more narrow than wide, and came up to Scully's shoulders. It was filled with more food and water and tools than Scully knew what to do with. If she had not witnessed Shannon test-towing it over the past few days with what appeared to be no effort at all she would have believed it was impossible to move.

Scully and Skinner had their own packs to carry, though in Skinner's pack they had made space for some of Sarah's things. All she was responsible for was a smaller daypack and her cane, which Scully had stolen from the hospital on one of their day trips.

"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" Sarah asked.

"I'll come and wake you up," Shannon promised gently. There were three bedrooms in the house and they each had their own. Shannon did not really need sleep, but Scully had seen her come in and out of Skinner's room in the past month. "We should leave at first light, so I'd recommend an early night."

"Come on," Scully urged, gently taking Sarah's elbow and guiding her to her feet on the step. "I'll help you get ready."

xxx 

Mulder groaned as he felt the toe of John's boot prod his backside.

"Ten more minutes, mom," he teased in a sleepy voice. John laughed loudly, watching Mulder roll over in his sleeping bag only to be faced with never-ending, hard, white sand. "Oh crap," he groaned, sitting up quickly and scrubbing it from his beard and from around his eyes and nose. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

John smirked but said nothing. After more than three months worth of mornings with the man, he knew Mulder woke up with his funny pants on. But since they were alone, he allowed himself to ask the question he had been dying to ask since Day One.

"Were you always this funny with Dana or is it just me bringin' out the stand-up in you?"

"John, you bring out a lot of things in me," Mulder conceded with a smirk. "But stand-up comedy you do not."

"Glad to hear it," John huffed impatiently, rubbing his own, stubbled jaw. He had not shaved since leaving Virginia. "Come on then, we're here, or did you forget that? I thought you'd be raring to go. Sun's up. Let's get some food and get moving."

"All right all right," Mulder sighed, staring at his purple pack beside him. "Look maybe I'm a bit reluctant about all this."

"I am too," John agreed, softening. "But we gotta do this now we're here. Where to?"

"Work," Mulder replied. He was entitled to still refer to the FBI as work. After all, he had not known another place of work since his youth. In reality it was the only 'grownup' job he'd ever had. It was the only life he had ever known.

And it would kill him if he got to his old office only to find Scully's body. It would not be like the other bodies, he realised. She would have a face. Her body would be in a natural state of decay, a human state of decomposition.

He and John put on their sunglasses and ate and drank in silence, putting away their rubbish to deposit into the next bin they passed. The temptation to litter in the desert was great, but as a group they had always been cautious about leaving traces of their existence. None of them had particularly wanted to be tracked by unknown persons or things. So the rubbish came with them until they could dispose of it more subtly.

The days were not as hot as they had been, but they were still warm, and Mulder was sweating within ten minutes of their walk towards the boundary of what had once been considered Washington DC.

"Do you ever wonder what winter will be like?" he asked to pass the time; pondering the issue himself as a hot wind struck him in the face. "I can't imagine it not being like this."

"Well I think we can kiss a white Christmas goodbye," John answered, happy to share the conversation. He was surprised with how well he and Mulder had actually gotten along since they had left, less than a week previously. They had made good time and still slept. They had walked faster and farther each day than they would have had Monica and Gibson been with them. They were both grateful for that. Sometimes it was nice to be able to set the pace and not worry about stragglers, and they were two men very much used to setting their own pace.

They walked on in silence, not needing to fill every moment with small talk. They both had things on their mind. Mulder was both thinking about and trying not to think about Scully, and John was thinking about Monica. He and Mulder had agreed that if they did not find Scully straight away they would search for one week and then return. That meant John would not be away from his wife for more than a few weeks, a month tops if they ran into delays. He wanted to be with her. He had never imagined after the death of his first son and the end of his first marriage that he would get the opportunity to do it all again.

And so what if life hadn't turned out exactly as he had planned? They were all healthy and relatively happy considering the circumstances. Every moment was precious, and John did not want to miss any more than he absolutely had to.

He knew Monica understood, and he knew she appreciated his attitude, but John also knew space was a welcome relief to them both. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised just how much Gibson had probably craved to get them out of his hair.

John was glad he could not hear Mulder's thoughts. He had a feeling Mulder had a hard enough time living with all his demons, but to be exposed to those burdens without firsthand experience had to be tough, and Gibson probably felt Mulder's sadness keenly because he cared so much for both Mulder and Scully. It was sort of how John thought Monica sometimes felt when he spoke of Luke and his murder. She had been on the outside and shared his pain, but if she had really known his thoughts, perhaps that would have been too much pain to bear and she could not have come back to him.

"Uh, John?" Mulder asked, interrupting John's thoughts. "I think it's this way." He was pointing into the distance, where what appeared to be the remnants of the city still stood out above the horizon. "What the hell happened?" Mulder continued. He sounded as shocked as John felt when he looked at what was left of their nation's capital.

"Looks like a bomb went off," John described aloud. "But not a bomb, cos otherwise more would've fallen over. All the houses we passed on the way in were fine, it's just this central area that looks...I dunno, destroyed somehow."

"You think that light did it?" Mulder posed. "Like a huge electro-magnetic pulse?"

"Maybe," John agreed cautiously. "Let's uh, let's head into it then. Gee, I'm not sure I know where I'm going now that I'm back here. You lived in this place much longer than I did Mulder. You lead the way, okay?" Mulder nodded calmly. He knew the way.

As they got closer, John again stopped Mulder with a tap on the elbow. He pointed to a street sign that was only as high as his waist.

"Notice anything odd?" he asked. "We just walked up that slope. All these places are buried, Mulder. Each day more sand gets pushed up over it all."

"Yeah," Mulder drawled, confused. John rolled his eyes.

"Well obviously if doors are blocked there's no way Scully coulda got into the basement in the first place. Hoover didn't have that many entrances, certainly not above the ground floor. If this has been like this the whole time, no way did she just walk in the front."

"Oh," he whispered. "Well this is the product of the winds and erosion. Maybe it wasn't like this the whole time. Let's keep moving." John reluctantly nodded. He did not point out to Mulder that even if what he had said was true there would be no way for them to get into the building themselves. They would effectively be locked out, and they may never know the truth. John knew he would have to convince Mulder of that if they got there and he insisted on trying. They could not try. They would just have to accept.

It turned out John had not needed to contemplate wrestling Mulder in the sand. He recognised his former workplace with the assistance of what remained of nearby landmarks he remembered, and the FBI building along with its neighbouring buildings had been demolished.

"Now it looks like a bomb went off," Mulder mumbled as they both stood on the hot, uneven ground under the unrelenting sun and stared. Half of the interior was exposed, and one whole corner of the building had been torn away. The foundations had crumpled and the building sagged, as though ready to collapse at any moment. Mulder adjusted his sunglasses and observed a computer dangling above the sand from several floors up. Remnants of the lives left behind were still in that building, but not Scully's. "She never went near here," he whispered, finishing his thought aloud. "She didn't kill herself here."

John checked his watch. It was still only mid-morning.

"Well where else should we go?" he asked. "I mean we gave ourselves a week and I intend to honour that Mulder, but it's up to you. Within the week, you can say stop at any time and we'll go back, but you knew Dana better than me. Where would she go?"

"She said she wanted to find her mom," Mulder mumbled, thinking about the letter tucked into the cover of the journal which was stored safely at the back of his pack. "I think it will only take a couple of hours to walk there."

"Do you remember the way?" John asked cautiously. How many times could Mulder really have gone to Scully's mother's house?

"Sort of," Mulder assured him with a positive nod and a grimace. "I know the address and the general direction. We might end up wandering for a bit though."

"We've got time," John promised, remembering to be patient. Mulder himself had been so calm about the whole expedition it was almost unsettling, considering what a mess he had been prior to leaving. It was as though he had decided that the trip would be his goodbye to her, as though she was 'around them' somehow, and he did not want her to see him broken. John suspected that on the inside Mulder was slowly imploding with grief. John knew that feeling. His son had been murdered at just seven. He knew.

Maybe that was really why Monica had chosen him to go, he realised suddenly. Gibson only knew what Mulder knew, he had no real life experience of his own, and Monica had not dealt with personal loss in her own life, at least not to the same extent of losing a loved one. John realised he offered something neither of them could: genuine empathy. He had known instinctively when to back off, he had learned when it was safe to crack a joke, and he knew above all to respect the journey of healing. He had been on his own journey once. He had gotten closure, and it had freed him to be happy again. Mulder needed that too. He deserved it.

xxx 

They stopped for lunch but they had stopped close to where Mulder thought they should have been, and it took only another half an hour for him to start picking up his pace and adding a bounce to his step. John noticed.

"We close?" he asked, taking his sunglasses off long enough to scrub some sand off them with his shirt, before returning them to his nose.

"Yeah," Mulder replied with a barely restrained grin. "I think so. It's right around the block." John nodded curiously. They were in the middle of suburbia. The sand was not as high as it had been in the city, probably because the strips of housing acted like wind channels, pushing the sand along. It was still deep in the centre, but entry into any of the houses along the edge of the streets would not be a problem.

The area was very middle class, and John remembered making a brief appearance at a Christmas party Maggie Scully had thrown the year Mulder had been somewhat dead. Scully had been pregnant and Skinner had gone with her. As her partner, John had felt obliged to go as well, and for the hour that he had stayed he had enjoyed himself. Her mother had been very welcoming and Scully and Skinner had spent time socialising with him not as fellow agents but as friends.

Just for that one hour they had not talked about work, but John had seen it in their faces; deep sadness for their loss, for Skinner had felt it almost as acutely as Scully. They had been quasi-buddies despite the rank that separated them. Skinner had been with Mulder when he had been taken. He had carried a lot of self-blame for a very long time, until Mulder had come back, until Skinner had unwittingly cured him. In giving Scully back her soul mate, Skinner had lifted the burden he had carried, but Mulder and Scully had wasted that gift, in John's mind at least. Mulder never should have left her and William.

Still, John reasoned, there was no point fretting over the past. Nothing could be changed, and he had a feeling that if Mulder had stayed, he or William might have been hurt worse than they had been.

William. There was a boy John had not thought much about in a long time. Scully and Mulder's son, the only child they would ever have, who Scully had given up for adoption suddenly and without much warning. John knew Monica had spent a lot of time with her, helping to pack up his things, helping to cleanse the house and lend Scully her support. John knew from Monica's stories that Scully had been beside herself. John could not imagine making that sort of decision. And without consulting the father, who had been far from a one night stand? Hell, in his mind even one night stands deserved to know.

He had lost one child against his will, but to voluntarily give one away? He envied no parent that decision.

John wondered whether Mulder thought much about the boy, who was surely dead along with the rest. He would have been four, about the same age Scully had been in the picture she had left. John wondered whether William had looked much like her in the end.

"Were you ever angry at her?" he asked before he could stop himself. Mulder stopped walking and turned to stare at John curiously, cocking his head to the side.

"Who?" he asked.

"At Dana, for giving William up." Mulder's lips parted in surprise at the unexpected question. Was that what John had been thinking about so silently? His son?

"Um, angry," he hummed, trying to put his answer into something intelligible. He wanted to answer the question properly because he knew John would not have asked something so personal unless he really wanted to know, unless the answer was important to him somehow. "Well," he continued cautiously. "I never blamed her for considering his safety above her happiness. She had always done that for me and I had known she would do the same for him. I never blamed her for being scared. But...When we argued about other things, sometimes I would find myself thinking about him, it would just pop into my head, and I realised there was some anger there. I was careful to keep it out of fights; that would not have been fair to her. Then one day about a year after we settled in Virginia, I approached her about it. I think she was surprised it had taken me so long."

"Approached her?" John asked.

"Yeah I... She always felt so bad. She apologised to me so much at the start it was all I could do to shut her up. She felt that she didn't deserve me anymore, that I couldn't still want to be with her. She found the fact that I did, and the fact we were running, hard to deal with. Just like I did. So that day she was in a good mood and we sat on our bed and I said I had something to tell her, and that I didn't want her to take it the wrong way. It was just something she needed to know. I said sometimes when I got angry about other things I got angry about how I had lost the opportunity to know my son. You know how it is."

"Yeah," John mumbled, aware Mulder knew about Luke's death. "Was she upset?"

"She asked me if I blamed her. She had never really 'asked' before. She had always just assumed. I discovered that when she asked me, I had to admit that sometimes I did get angry at her, but not in a hateful sense, only in the sense that she had convinced me to leave so I hadn't been there to experience life with them as a family, so I could never completely understand, and I wished that I could. It made sense to her somehow, which was good because I still don't really know what I meant. She cried, I sat there and didn't hug her, just watched her. Then she said the oddest thing. You know what it was?"

"What?" John asked, unable to help his smile when he saw Mulder break into his own.

"She looked up at me with tears all down her cheeks and said, 'Sometimes I blame you too'. Then she launched herself at me and we just sat there for ages. Why'd you ask?"

"I was just thinking about it," John replied casually. Mulder nodded.

"You know of all the memories that keep coming back to me about her, in all this time I'd never dragged that one up before," he stated. "I should have. I like it. Thanks."

"Uh, no worries," John assured him with a curious smirk. Mulder turned on his heel and bounced ahead as though he had not just shared a very intimate and private moment with a guy who woke him up every morning by kicking him in the bum. Sometimes Mulder was a real mystery, John reminded himself patiently. And he was bound to follow.


	9. Chapter 9

Eight

"How is everyone going?" Skinner asked as he led the trail out of the suburbs. "Any last stops before we hit what I assume used to be the highway?"

"We're fine here," Scully promised, walking behind and off to the side of him. Sarah was beside her, her left arm resting around Scully's elbow and her right holding the cane out in front of her, slowly learning the landscape of the sand. They were both wearing dark sunglasses and ghastly, old-lady hats Scully had found at a nearby house, but they shrouded their faces in shade and kept the sun away. Skinner was even wearing a dark baseball cap to prevent his bald head from sunburn. Shannon needed nothing, and was tugging the raft behind her at the back of the line. It was heavy enough to keep her at a very slow pace, but Scully and Sarah did not mind, and Skinner was blessedly patient with them all.

"If we stop to get any more stuff," Shannon exclaimed from the back. "Walter I'll murder you."

"Yeah, yeah," he laughed, turning his head far enough to meet her amused blue eyes. He grinned when he saw her smiling. "You want me to have a go?"

"Get real," she taunted. "I saw you having a go a few days ago. You didn't do any better than Dana and you know it old man."

"Let's just get out of here," Sarah agreed. She was still quiet, but Scully was secretly enjoying the way she was holding onto her arm. It was nice to be relied on again. It was nice to feel needed and amongst friends. It felt good to be doing something other than sitting in the house contemplating her life. She knew Sarah felt the same way. The wind was not strong and cooler than Scully remembered, though the sand underfoot was still hot and sharp. But she was better prepared second time around. They had spare shoes, oodles of medical supplies, and there was no worry about where the next meal would come from; Shannon was towing at least six months of meals over her shoulders.

As they slowly walked away from DC, Scully spared one more thought for her mother, alone in her bed, and the mess she had presumably left in the house. It had been night, and she had not been back since, but she did not need a very active imagination to picture what might have been left considering the length and depth of her fresh, pink scar.

Not that it mattered, she reasoned. Nobody was ever going to see it. Still, her mother had deserved a clean house to rest in. Though her spirit was long gone, the dutiful daughter in Scully still wanted to put things right. But she was part of a team again, and her selfish needs were secondary to the needs of the group. She liked that. She had not dealt well on her own and she did not want to go back there. They all needed each other, and there was some hope amongst them. They were heading towards possible safety, potential civilisation. Even the slim chance of freedom in a new world was enough to inspire her to look forward and not into the past. There was nothing left for her there.

xxx 

Mulder and John had no trouble breaking into the Scully house when Mulder located it. John spared a moment to thank the Heavens for Mulder's photographic memory; apparently it worked well for directions also. The back door had been forced but left closed, and they had merely turned the handle to allow entry.

The kitchen was the first room they found themselves in. John knew enough about Maggie Scully to know she would not have tolerated her kitchen in such a state.

"Looks like looters," he commented. "We're definitely not alone out here." Mulder walked to the kitchen bench and examined the sprawl. He took off his sunglasses and peered more closely, a deeply lined frown settling across his tanned forehead.

"No," he hissed, gesturing to the mess. "Look at this." Some empty cans of food had been left, but John finally realised what had caught his attention. The bench was not covered in random mess. It was leftover medical supplies. Several empty packets that had contained medical padding or gauze had been left, and as John followed Mulder to the sink he realised most of that padding had been left in the stainless steel basin. Dried blood stained the white fabric. A lot of blood, he realised as he looked around and saw drops on the bench and the floor, and all around the stainless steel sink.

"What happened here?" John asked softly, trying to put it all together. Mulder was staring at the blood on the floor, and his brown eyes drifted away from the kitchen.

"There's a trail," he announced unnecessarily, pointing. "From there to here. An injury was treated in here."

"Looks like quite a bit of blood," John added, voicing his concern. Mulder only hummed. A minute passed in silence. Then very slowly Mulder began to edge his way along the outside of the trail, towards the living area John remembered from the Christmas party.

Mulder stood still as he allowed his mind to take in the living room. It was not at all what he had expected to see. He had expected a big, giant nothing to greet him, for their first stop had been a failure. This, however, was something else. It was not success, for there were no signs of life in the house, but it also was not failure.

"John," he called, not needing to raise his voice. "Think you should see this." He felt John stand beside him and heard his surprised intake of breath.

If the kitchen was messy, the living room was a disaster area, Mulder summarised. Directly opposite him, the piano was open and the stool pulled out. Somebody had been playing. He squinted to make out the title of the sheet music open on the stand above the keys. Phantom of the Opera, he read. The music itself looked uncomplicated, though he was without an instrumental bone in his body and to him it all seemed rather complex. Still, he knew the difference between Beethoven and beginner.

Scully had never mentioned whether she favoured the musical or that level of piano, but Mulder did know she had played as a girl. Perhaps that was where her skill level had stalled.

Mulder noticed the mantelpiece next. He knew he was doing what he had done in the bunker, avoiding the things he wanted to see the most, but he had to work his way around the perimeter and then zero in. He had to make sure he saw everything there was to see, that he was not preoccupied by the obvious, thereby missing an important clue perhaps hidden in the not-so-obvious.

There were two photos in frames on the mantelpiece that were lying down and not standing proudly as the others. Mulder could see the old family photos, of Maggie and Bill Senior in their youth with their young children, all smiling and happy. Mulder recognised a young Scully, and her sister Melissa, and the brothers he had met only a few times. Mulder knew what photos were lying down without needing to look. He remembered Maggie had sent them a picture in a card after one Christmas of the family all together and posing for a photo 'to send to Aunty Dana'.

Scully's nieces and nephews had crowded in the front, her brothers and sisters-in-law and her mother in the back. But behind those smiling faces, Mulder had seen 'the photo'. He remembered wondering whether Maggie had positioned her family on purpose, as though to somehow include Mulder and Scully as family members in the group photo despite their absence. On the far left of the mantelpiece had been the photo that had lived on Scully's bedside table, the picture she had drawn on the second last page of her journal.

Mulder knew he had to check but he didn't want to. Luckily he didn't have to. John had seen him staring and had taken the initiative to cross the room and look for himself.

"They're of her," he whispered seriously, standing the frames back upright out of respect. "You and her, and her and William." Mulder nodded, grateful for the confirmation.

On his way back, John stopped by the pale wall and the deep red stain that started around the level of his hip and dripped downwards. He rubbed two fingers over it and brought them to his nose, sniffing warily. Mulder knew it was not blood. The broken, green shards of glass under John's feet allowed that assumption to be made easily.

"Wine," he confirmed. Mulder again nodded, allowing his gaze to travel cautiously to the couch. Blood streaked the top of the cushion on one side. It was only faint, as though it had seeped through something to get there. Mulder had seen many hundreds of blood stains in his career as a profiler for Violent Crimes and on the X Files, enough to be confident in his identification of the substance despite the fragile physical evidence.

Suddenly Mulder had nowhere else to look but to the floor. He had allowed himself to see the glass early on, but not the pool of blood just a metre from where he stood. It was much more than had been in the kitchen or that was on the couch. It was ground zero for whatever had taken place, and the trail to the kitchen led straight to it and to nowhere else. Mulder did not think it looked like a life-threatening amount of blood, but it was enough to make him feel sick. He could see larger pieces of glass near the site; he could see the drops of blood on the carpet below some of those pieces as they angled upwards.

The only conclusion he could draw was that the wine had been thrown to the wall in a fit of frustration. It had not been thrown by somebody very tall, because though it would have curved downwards naturally before hitting the wall, he knew that when he threw objects in anger they tended to make contact at shoulder-height. Scully was not as strong as that. She would have pitched low.

But had it been Scully? Mulder had to know. He walked forward and knelt on the carpet beside the significant stain. He did not remember the carpet. He remembered floorboards.

The blood had dried but it had soaked first into the pale carpet. It was more blood than Mulder had seen in many years, and he knew once he saw a long, orange hair stuck in it that it had been Scully's.

Scully's blood. Without warning he flashed back to the scary, sudden nosebleeds she had suffered with during her fight against the cancer that had invaded her body nearly a decade earlier. He remembered her letting him take a peek at the gunshot wound on her stomach in the hospital and the blood he had seen on the raw wound and padding. He saw the blood on her white blouse as she lay on the floorboards in his old apartment, momentarily unconscious as he scanned her chest for signs of psychic penetration.

He had seen her bleed a lot, but not this much, he realised. Never so much.

Mulder could see her in the living room. He could build a profile of events based on the evidence left behind, based on how he knew her. She had thrown the wine, she had cut herself with the glass, and then she had gone to the kitchen to clean up, maybe spent some time lying on the couch afterwards. But she had not cleaned up after herself. She hadn't even put the bandage wrappers in the bin. That part did not fit her profile.

"Was it her?" John asked. Mulder swallowed painfully and nodded. It had to be. Her hair was again at his fingertips. It had to be. "Doesn't look life-threatening but it looks like it must've hurt a hell of a lot. Looks like maybe she changed her mind?"

"Yeah," he whispered, not sure whether he was grateful for the possibility she was still alive or whether it would have been better to find a body. "I'm going to check upstairs," he announced suddenly, standing and taking long strides to the steps. John decided to wait, taking an opportunity to more closely examine the living room now that Mulder was no longer blocking vital evidence. He sighed at the sight of her hair upon closer inspection of the couch. It was unmistakably hers, long and orange like in the photos.

Mulder returned quickly.

"There's no one up there. Her mother's a pile of ash in the bed, and it looks like some clothes might have been taken from the wardrobe. I found a few more of her hairs in the sink in the ensuite, but I reckon she would have stayed out of there as much as possible."

"Guess when she realised FBI was out, she came here," John reasoned. "There's orange hair on the couch too Mulder. Maybe she slept down here." Mulder nodded. "So what happened to change her mind? Why couldn't she go through with it?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I wouldn't blame her if she did, but maybe she had help. Judging by the amount of blood in this room I'd expect the trail to be more obvious, but it's not. Maybe she was just holding the wound herself, but I'm not sure she would have been able to walk if she had been in shock and bleeding heavily. She was a doctor but from a scientific point of view her blood pressure would have been all over the place."

"What part of her do you think that blood is from?" John asked cautiously. Mulder said nothing and his jaw twitched as he pressed his lips together, but he tapped the inside of his left wrist in reply. John nodded. That was what he had suspected too. Scully was right-handed. "Where would she go after something like that?" he asked.

"I dunno," Mulder shrugged. "There's no more family here. She didn't have any friends she kept in touch with here. Her mom was the only person that meant something to her who lived in this city still. After this, I dunno where she would have gone."

"What about Arlington?" John suggested. Mulder stared at him curiously. "The Lone Gunmen were buried there," he added. Mulder bit his bottom lip at the gentle reminder, curiosity stirring his stomach. He had never been to visit the graves of his friends. He had never said goodbye, or thank you, and he had wanted to. Particularly once Scully had told him of their continued loyalty to her and William in his absence.

"Okay," he agreed. "I think it would be desert by now but we should check."

"We'll check any other places you can think of Mulder," John promised firmly, his blue eyes wide in earnest.

"Thanks," Mulder mumbled, nodding and frowning at the same time. "I appreciate that. I just don't think there's much else here. She...This wasn't our home anymore. She said she wanted to be somewhere where she could feel close to me to end her life. That's how I understand it. Maybe her mom's place was an equal first or even a second choice, but after that I don't know. The 'where' would be important to her. I know it would."

John nodded. He wanted to say something to help but was out of ideas. Everything Mulder said made sense, and it fit within the idea of Dana Scully he remembered. But perhaps Mulder was still biased, John realised suddenly, because he wanted to believe she would find somewhere sentimental to die. Maybe she had, but maybe it had less to do with him and more to do with the Bible she had left behind.

"What about a Church?" John asked. "Did she have a Church she visited often here?"

"Often, no," Mulder answered. "We travelled too much...Her family parish is not far from here though. I went there once for a funeral. It's on the way to Arlington."

"Good. Do you want to take those photos?"

"What?" Mulder asked, snapping in surprise.

"The photos," John repeated, pointing to the mantelpiece. "Dana took them from your home. You should have them too. I think her mother would have liked that."

Yeah, Mulder realised sadly. She would have. He nodded dumbly as John took it upon himself to collect the photos. He then held them out to Mulder as seriously as he would have had he been delivering the American flag to the widow of a fallen soldier. In a way that was exactly what he was doing and he expected the expression on Mulder's face as he accepted the offering had been mirrored through time by widows and parents worldwide.

"Remember what that Psalm said," he added. "She believes in you." Mulder nodded once again, still silent, tears beginning to blur his vision. He blinked and pushed them away. "You want a minute here?" John asked gently. He nodded again. "I'll wait around back."

Once John had left, Mulder turned to stare not at the floor but the couch. He could imagine her sleeping there, unwilling to share a floor with her deceased mother. Had she thought of him sleeping on his own couch and wondered at the irony? Had she been in pain? If her injury had not been life-threatening, then he was sure she had been in terrible pain. Mental as well as physical, for it took a macabre sort of determination to end a life, and it was not something Scully had ever naturally possessed. Mulder knew she would have stepped outside herself in that moment, and she only would have done that if something had pushed her, if she had been subjected to a pain her soul could not withstand.

God, I did that, he thought, allowing his tears to slip silently onto his cheeks. He had never really believed her to be capable of suicide, but he was standing in front of a large pool of blood that told him otherwise. Still, she had survived and walked away. She could have tried again if nerves had first overcome her. Most people who chickened out or got interrupted tried again. But she had walked. Why? To find somewhere better? Or because she had realised the tragic surrender involved with suicide wasn't her game?

Because it wasn't, Mulder assured himself. It wasn't her. It didn't suit her. It wasn't her style. But if she was in pain great enough to make her even try, did he want her to live? Could he stand to know she was out there, all alone, suffering somehow? Suffering because he had left, suffering because her mother was dead, her whole family, suffering because the world had ended and nobody had thought to warn them.

He reached down to touch the arm of the couch, imagining her hair beneath his fingers as her head rested there, imagining her face peaceful in sleep, imagining the bandage and thick padding on her wrist. He wanted to cover her in a blanket in that moment and tell her they would make it through this nightmare they were in, but in reality only he was in his nightmare, and the couch before him was empty and cold, stained with drops of her blood and blessed by only a few long strands of orange hair.

"Shit," he whispered, rubbing his face with his free hand, the other clutching his photos. He had thought retracing her steps would allow him to say goodbye, but it had only brought him more questions that needed answering. Questions he had no hope of ever asking, for nobody he could ask would know the answer. Only her, and she had walked away, this time leaving no clue as to where she was going. He would check her mother's favoured Church and Arlington, but he knew instinctively she would not be at either.

This time she had left him, he realised. She had moved on. He was at a dead end, standing in a room of wine, glass and blood without a body, and yet he could not say goodbye. Could he?

xxx 

"I miss fire," Mulder sighed that night as he and John sat around the faint light of a torch that converted into a lamp. They were sitting on their sleeping bags on the floor of the Church Mulder remembered. There were no bodies in the main section, and at least they were indoors. John smirked at him.

"Well we are surrounded by lacquered wood," he teased. "How big a fire do you want?"

"Ever wonder why they took the trees and not all this?" Mulder asked. John nodded.

"But I don't think we'll ever find out. Maybe dismantling our construction was deemed too much effort. Maybe all they wanted was the chlorophyll in the trees and grass. I'm glad they left places like this. Nice to have some shelter."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed. "Tomorrow I think we should go home."

"What?" John gasped. "Mulder, we only just got here this mornin'. You telling me you've given up already?"

"I can't feel her here," he mumbled. "She didn't leave any clue as to where she was. She doesn't want to be found. She's angry at me."

"Mulder," John sighed, his heart aching at the innocent tone in Mulder's choked voice. John wished Monica had been there. She would have known just what to say. But she wasn't and it was up to him. What would she say, he wondered? Slowly, the words came to him. "She's not mad at you. She told you that in her letter, and I'm sure in that journal. You don't go to all that trouble to leave such an elaborate goodbye for somebody you're angry at. And, and maybe she didn't leave a clue not because she didn't want to, but because, well, first off she thinks you're dead, and secondly, what if she wasn't in a fit state to think about it at the time? I mean she might not have lost a dangerous amount of blood, but she lost more than would make me pretty light-headed and it was more than likely self-inflicted. What if she simply forgot?"

"Doesn't change anything," Mulder sighed, shaking his bowed head. "Still can't find her. I won't find her here. All I've found here is her pain, her blood. That's not what I wanted."

"Well we can't have everything we want. She was alive when she left, that's something."

"I guess," he whispered. "Do you have what you want? With Monica, I mean, with all this?"

"I have most of what I want," John replied. "But I have everything I need."

"I don't have anything I need," Mulder mumbled.

"Gee," John laughed. "Don't I feel special?"

"Not like that," Mulder corrected quickly. "It's just...I don't need you like I need her. You'd feel the same about Monica, right? Tell me it's not just me John."

"It's not just you," he echoed seriously, honestly. "Look," he continued, thoughtful. "Let's stay a couple more days. If she left injured, maybe she's around. We can go to Arlington and restock our supplies and then in a couple more days we can head home. You owe it to her and yourself to stick around and give this a shot. You owe it to Monica and to Dana. Are you really prepared to give up on her that quick?"

"No, I know," Mulder whispered. "Okay uh, we can stay another couple of days. We should. Maybe there are some more places we could check."

"Like?" John asked. Mulder sighed.

"Like our old apartments," he answered. He did not think she was there, but he did owe it to Scully to check. Just in case.

"That's the spirit," John assured him positively, before settling down in his sleeping bag for the night. "Ah crap, you know what?" he added suddenly. Mulder looked down at him, expressionless. "It might be nice to have a ceiling and some walls, but this floor is friggin' uncomfortable compared to the sand."

xxx

"I'm back!" Gibson called as he entered the front door. It was night, and he had stayed out longer than planned. He was happy to be back in familiar surroundings. It was strange not to hear any voices around, and that feeling in itself was odd to him because he never could have imagined total silence to be an unwelcome part of his life, but maybe it was.

He knew Monica was upstairs in the spare room lying on the air mattress they had found, and he hurried upstairs. She hadn't bothered calling to him but she was awake and telling him where she was. His footsteps echoed on the old wood and it creaked beneath his weight. Mulder and Scully had really gotten to the stage of needing to do more renovations, he thought. Maybe while they lived there they could all pitch in and help. It would at least give John and Mulder something to focus on besides time and the women in their lives, or not in their lives in Mulder's case.

"Hi," Monica greeted when he finally entered the room. The single bed had been abandoned due to the fact it was the most uncomfortable bed either of them had ever slept in, and neither wanted to spend much time in Mulder and Scully's room. Gibson agreed with Monica's observation that their home had been in that bedroom, more so than in the rest of the building, and for that reason and out of respect it should not be disturbed.

So the air mattress it was. Gibson slept on the couch on the ground floor. It had been just over a week since John and Mulder had left, and they were both still enjoying the space, though there were moments of boredom and sometimes Gibson got sick of all the time he had to think. That being said, he had conserved a lot of energy in not having to strain to block out the guilt-ridden thoughts of Mulder.

He really liked Mulder, he always had, but the man was so single minded it was tiring, and reading the mind of someone with a photographic memory meant his thoughts were detailed; often Gibson got just too much information, way more than any other person should have. It made him feel bad he was seeing so clearly into a man who was so private, but he liked to think he helped in his own way by making sure Mulder had enough space or distracting him when he needed it. That helped a little, he supposed.

"Hello," he replied to Monica, aware he had been standing in silence thinking for longer than she expected. "I got you something." She pushed herself up to sitting, her hands braced behind her, and smiled at him. The gas light was not far from her and the room was a dim yellow.

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "Should I start guessing?"

"Here," he declared with a wide grin, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving two chocolate bars. "Which one is your favourite?"

"Ooh, chocolate," she whispered, excited. Gibson laughed as she pointed to the milk chocolate, which left him with dark but he didn't mind. It was all the same in the end. "Thank you Gibson," she added as she ripped the wrapper and took a tiny bite. "Just what I've been craving too; what a surprise!"

"Shut up," he replied, enjoying her teasing. Gibson really, truly liked having Monica around. She treated him like an ordinary person. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy John and Mulder's company, but Monica, despite being a woman so more complicated in a lot of ways, was far less complicated in her thoughts. She was more positive than John and Mulder, for starters. He respected the way she had pushed Mulder and John along and kept them going; they didn't know it or want to acknowledge it but she had.

But he knew she was worried about John, and he had been gone for most of the day himself, venturing into town to look around once more. It had been a long walk and he had not come back with much in the end, but it had been nice to wander aimlessly. The sand had not gotten too high around the buildings, and it had not been as hot.

Gibson sat down on the single bed as Monica rearranged herself on the mattress on the floor, sitting on one hip and to the side as she ate her chocolate. Gibson would save his for later.

"So where did you go today?" Monica asked, looking up at him with interest.

"Just walked around really," he replied. "I checked out the hospital some more that Scully must have worked at. There's lots of stuff there we can use for the baby." Monica nodded, happy with his observation. "And there are still lots of places that have not been touched, homes and stuff, so we won't run out of food and water before we go."

"There's enough downstairs to keep us going a few months at least anyway," she replied.

"Yeah, and...I just walked around. What did you do?"

"Sat around," she teased, laughing when he smirked at her. "If it's possible, in the last week I actually think I've started putting on some weight again, which is good. I'll need it to work off later."

"Yeah, we've got a bit more freedom to eat more here," he assured her. "So are you worried about John and Mulder?"

"You know I am or you wouldn't have brought it up," she mentioned gently, smiling. "But I'm sure they're fine. They would be in DC by now."

"I don't know how you do it," Gibson stated curiously. "You really believe what you just said and everything."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked.

"Well most people, and this is speaking from first-hand experience of most people's minds, would be running through all the scenarios of what might have gone wrong along the way. Not you. You just know they would be in DC. You're just sure they're 'fine'."

"They probably are," she shrugged. "Worrying wouldn't do me any good, and it would probably turn out for nothing."

"Do you think they'll find her?" he asked.

"Maybe," she replied with another hopeful shrug. "If not her, maybe some more evidence of her."

"You expect Mulder to walk around the country tailing her until he catches up?"

"I think if she's still walking, she's too far ahead for a simple tail to catch up," Monica reasoned. "But I think it's a good thing he got the chance to go back there. That was his home before this was, and it was Dana's home, and, hell, maybe he will find her. Maybe she did kill herself. I can't believe it."

"Why not? She wrote it in her letter."

"No she didn't," Monica scoffed. "Dana said when she 'thought' about where she 'might' end her life she thought about being somewhere where she felt close to Mulder. Then she traipses off to DC."

"So?" Gibson asked. He thought he knew what was coming but Monica was deliberately holding it back and he only heard a glimpse, so he humoured her. Besides, he enjoyed their banter even if he did know. Somehow she always made it sound different aloud.

"HELLO!" she exclaimed loudly. "What do you think that room is down the hall? If it wasn't the perfect place to off herself I don't know what was. She and Mulder 'lived' in that bedroom. There was no real need for her to go back to DC. They had spent a lot of time there, yeah, but they were never really 'together' there. I don't get it. I think she was just confused, and hurting, and really struggling with the need to 'do' something besides just sitting around. Plus, hundred bucks she was curious as hell to explore for a while. I think in expressing all of that she came up with that letter. I'm not sure she was suicidal at all, and I might not be Catholic, but that Bible passage she circled for Mulder wasn't exactly 'oh ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death'."

"Mulder thought that too," Gibson pointed out. "He was confused when he put it all together as well."

"Who wouldn't be?" Monica agreed. "Dana was probably as lost as any of us, even more because she was alone. At least we had you explaining to us what had happened. I'm really glad you came to us Gibson. Mulder too. It's been nice to spend some time with him. We always wondered...what had happened to them, how they were doing. I always wanted to know what he was like. So thanks. I don't think I've ever really said it to you."

"I'm glad I came to you too," he replied with an embarrassed smile. He had never smiled much in his life, but with Monica he discovered it was contagious, and he couldn't help himself. She just made him feel happier, even though nothing had changed. "Thanks for a lot of things," he added, not sure how to put the rest into words. She grinned, cocking her head to the side and finishing her chocolate. She tossed the wrapper on the ground; she would put it away next time she had to stand up. "So how's the baby?" Gibson asked.

"Pretty good," she assured him. "Why, you excited?"

"Little bit," he admitted, amazed that sometimes it seemed like she could read his mind too. "But I meant it when I said we don't know anything."

"I know enough. I'll just need some support and I know I've got that. As long as nothing goes wrong at the last minute, which I don't think it will, then we'll be right. Women were having babies in all sorts of wild places before God invented hospitals."

"True," Gibson laughed. "But I don't think John would appreciate that joke."

"No," she agreed. "Mulder might. Hey, I don't mean to use you as a spy here Gibson, but...when he left did he have any intention of keeping the promise he made to me?"

"Yes," Gibson promised, suddenly serious. "He'll come back. He knew that he wanted to and I know you left John with strict instructions to look after him, and I think John will do that. He's better at that stuff than he thinks he is. Plus, Mulder's a little bit excited about the baby as well. He wants to be there for it." Monica smiled softly and nodded.

"I want him to be there too," she whispered, emotional tears filling her brown eyes. Gibson nodded as the room fell into silence. He knew she did.


	10. Chapter 10

Nine

 _Rural Virginia – October 2005_

"Haul up!" Shannon declared, her voice firm but not very loud considering Scully was only ten metres ahead. She stopped immediately and turned around, her orange backpack so full it seemed to swing after her even though it was strapped around her waist. Scully returned to them quickly as Skinner and Sarah sat down in the sand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, slipping into physician mode and taking in the sweat on their faces and Sarah's heavy breathing. She dropped her pack in preparation to retrieve medical supplies if needed. Sarah had promised her she did not have asthma or diabetes, but Scully had almost every conceivable medication with her just in case any of them were taken by surprise.

"I just got really hot all of a sudden," Sarah whispered, blushing as Scully took her pulse and touched her forehead. Skinner retrieved a bottle of sports drink and offered it to his niece. She drank gratefully as Scully decided they all may as well take another break. She sat down in the sand and allowed herself to lie back, pulling her hat over her face to cover her eyes from the hot sun.

"It's not time for Siesta yet, Dana," Skinner teased, laughing as she shrugged silently.

"What's she doing?" Sarah asked curiously.

"I'm napping!" Scully huffed. "It's hot. I'm over it."

"This is only day six," Shannon pointed out. "It could take months-"

"I know and I expect Siesta to be a standing arrangement for all of those months," Scully replied, giggling to herself under her hat when she felt the weight of Shannon's glare and the playful roll of Skinner's eyes. "Sarah do you feel faint?" she asked more seriously.

"The drink helped," Sarah answered. "I'm not going to pass out. I'm just a bit disoriented. My balance in this sand, it's so much effort, but I'm okay. You and Walter sticking by me is making a huge difference. I think I just panicked."

"Your pulse was up," Scully confirmed. "We'll take a ten minute break just to be on the safe side. Any objections, oh wise leaders?"

"No," Shannon and Skinner both replied simultaneously. Scully heard Skinner collapse back in the sand not far from her and suppressed another giggle at his satisfied sigh.

"Just ignore them," Shannon told Sarah when she realised the young woman was looking around curiously, not sure where anybody had really gone to but aware they were close. "You can lie down too if you want."

"I'd rather sit and finish this drink," she assured Shannon, her voice strong. Shannon shrugged and sat down against the raft, knees up.

"Suit yourself." She took the opportunity to look at her very mortal companions. So far none of them had gotten heat-stroke or met with any serious travel injuries, but they were all sweating and tired, and it showed most obviously in Scully. Her fair skin was bright red, more red than her hair. It was from heat more than sunburn, for Shannon had watched her meticulously and repetitively coat herself in thick sunscreen for the past week. Shannon no longer needed to bother with sunscreen. She just didn't burn.

Or at least if she did it healed so quickly she never noticed.

"Are you tired yet?" Sarah asked her, looking in her direction from under her large hat. When Shannon spoke, Sarah narrowed her focus and turned her head to exactly where it should have been had she been able to see Shannon speaking.

"I wish I was," she admitted. "But no. I'm a bit stiff, but it's nothing a gentle massage and a rest overnight won't fix."

"Where are we now?" she asked. "Can you describe it?"

"We're in the sand, Sarah," Skinner mumbled tiredly from beside her, his voice muffled by his baseball cap. He had copied Scully and put it over his face so he could close his eyes behind his sunglasses in relative darkness.

"No shit," Sarah shot back with a playful huff. She turned her head back towards Shannon. "No really. Are we following a map or do you just instinctively know?"

"We have a map," Shannon replied. "But I do know where to go. It's not instinct, it's just because they told me. Inside information, you know?" Sarah smiled and nodded. "And your Uncle is right. We're surrounded by sand right now. There are no buildings on the horizon in any direction, and the sky is bright blue. No clouds."

"Are there ever clouds anymore?"

"As we move south there will be," Shannon promised.

"So do you know where we are? Are we in West Virginia or, what's more west than that...Ohio? Kentucky? Or are we south, like in North Carolina?"

"That's ambition for you," Shannon teased. "We're still in Virginia."

"Are you SERIOUS?" she exclaimed, loud and animated in her genuine surprise. "Oh my God this is going to take FOREVER!"

"So I keep saying," Shannon laughed. "Don't stress over it though. There's no hurry. We've been making very good time actually. I'm proud of us."

"I am slowing you guys down so much!"

"You're not going any slower than the raft," Scully pointed out from underneath her hat. "And we have made good time. Does anyone want food before we start up again?"

"Narr," Skinner sighed, sitting up reluctantly at Scully's call that they end their break. He brushed sand off his grey t-shirt before reaching back and taking her hand, helping her to sit.

"Thanks," she offered with a smile as she pushed her hat back onto her head. Her hair was in a low ponytail so didn't get in the way, but she reached back to shake the sand out of it best she could. "I'm just going to put more sunscreen on before we get going."

"Jesus," Skinner teased as he watched her search her pack. "You go through that faster than water." Scully rolled her eyes. She did not, she thought. She was wearing a long-sleeved, white cotton shirt over her red singlet top and her brown, long cotton pants, and her hat had a wide, thick brim. She was only really putting sunscreen on her face, neck, hands and feet, and she had fair skin; blame the Irish, she thought to herself gruffly.

"When you're red as a lobster by nightfall I'm not helping you," she huffed. "You can go 'Doctor Scully' someone else. No Vitamin E for you."

"Give it," Skinner urged, swiping the bottle just as she held it out to him, anticipating the move. Their fingers brushed and they laughed.

xxx 

Two hours later, Scully debated whether or not to tell her friends she knew where they were. Sarah's long fingers were wrapped around her elbow and Skinner was strolling along behind them, beside Shannon as she towed the raft over the sand. It had held up well since they had left, and they were all pleased by its performance across the terrain. Scully was also immensely pleased with Shannon. The woman simply did not complain. She felt no pain. She was a machine. Literally.

But that was completely beside the point, she reasoned, returning her attention to the familiar directional sign just up ahead. She was sure the plan was to continue straight, but only a couple of hours walk off the right exit ramp, and Scully would be home.

Home.

It seemed as though she had left it behind so long ago, but it had been less than three months, perhaps somewhere around ten weeks. She had lost track of time for a while in the house while she had been recovering, and she had never really gotten it back. Shannon, Skinner and Sarah had not been keeping a calendar like she had been in the bunker. They hadn't been able to help her.

Scully was not sure what she wanted to do, or what she was supposed to say. They were only perhaps ten minutes from the exit, so she had to decide fast. Did she want to go back? What did she expect to see or do there? All that would happen was that she would be reminded of all she had left behind. The underground bunker she had left after five weeks was a time capsule of her life. Time capsules were not meant to be reopened.

It would bring back so much pain, one part of her mind said. All she would see was her letter to Mulder, and an empty house covered in dust that had once belonged to them. She had been proud of that house despite its relative state of disrepair. She had been proud to be with Mulder there. Going back would only remind her of what she had lost.

Still, Scully saw that home in her dreams nearly every night. She missed it. She missed her pillow, and the fire in winter, and the way Mulder liked to light the gas stove with matches just to frighten her for a laugh. She missed her lawn and the way the grass grew tall just outside the front door, the colour of wheat, swaying gently in the spring breeze.

None of those things existed for her anymore. So what was the point? The last time she had allowed herself to feel pain she had done something incredibly stupid, and she did not want to go back there. Yes, she still felt an ache inside her, yes, she would carry her grief with her for the rest of her life, but no, she did not want to feel it so intensely, not ever again. She had just started getting the nightmares under control, or at least under some semblance of control. She did not want to go back to taking nightly sleeping pills.

But maybe just one more look, another part of her whispered. One last goodbye.

She sighed deeply, her heart torn in two, her brain sitting midway between her attachment to her past and her determination to embrace her future.

Sarah heard her sigh and frowned, squeezing her elbow.

"Are you all right Dana?" she asked in a concerned whisper, keeping the question private.

"Just homesick," she replied softly.

"Where are you from?" Sarah asked curiously. Scully was surprised the question had not come up earlier, but she was not surprised it had come up then. The answer was easy.

"Here," she hissed. Sarah stopped mid-stride and gripped Scully's elbow, turning to face her, her cane planting firmly into the sand at her side.

"What?" she exclaimed. "Here?" Scully nodded and even though Sarah could not see her Scully knew she could sense the gesture.

"What's going on?" Skinner asked as he and Shannon caught up, the raft behind them slowing to a careful halt controlled by Shannon.

"Did you know Dana lived here?" Sarah asked him impatiently. Skinner looked around him, confused.

"There's nothing out here," he replied. "We're on a highway."

"Not right here," Scully corrected, embarrassed at the way Skinner and Shannon were suddenly looking at her, as though she had said the wrong thing by mentioning her former home, as though that made her weak. "Off the exit. That way." She pointed.

"How far that way?" Shannon asked suspiciously.

"A couple hours walk," she sighed, removing her sunglasses and idly cleaning them on the loose, white shirt that covered a dark blue singlet top. "Maybe more. I don't know."

"We could go, if you want," Sarah decided automatically.

"No, that's not what I meant by mentioning it-"

"You were upset just now thinking about it," she argued. "You want to see it again."

"How could you possibly know that?" Scully asked, emotional and at a loss to explain the girl's uncanny intuition.

"Because," Sarah wept, reaching up under her sunglasses to brush unshed tears from her unseeing eyes. "I would give ANYTHING to see my home again. Wouldn't you?"

"You don't understand what I left behind," Scully mumbled, instantly feeling guilty for assuming Sarah did not understand. The woman was blind, for God's sakes. She would never 'see' anything again. But was she transferring her desire to see onto Scully, in suggesting that it was Scully who wanted to see her home, or did Scully genuinely want to go there one last time before leaving it behind forever?

"Dana," Skinner whispered, earning her attention. He could see the internal struggle in her blue eyes and managed an understanding smile. "Why don't you take a minute to think about what you want to do, and whatever it is, we'll go with you." Scully frowned in an effort not to cry at the fact Skinner was assuring her of his unquestioning support. He had always supported her at the FBI as her boss, and now as a friend. He had saved her, she remembered. He owed her nothing and yet he was prepared to let her go home.

But did she want to?

"I need to take a walk," she admitted, unable to make such a decision with them all staring at her. She backed away from Sarah so as not to startle her with movement, and then she turned and wandered aimlessly towards the off-ramp. She put her sunglasses back on and then stuffed her hands into her baggy pockets.

"What do you think?" Shannon hissed once Scully was far enough away not to hear them.

"I have absolutely no idea," Skinner admitted. "She's only ever said she and Mulder had an argument and he walked out. I don't know if that was normal for them or not. I don't know the state of their relationship when all this happened. She doesn't talk about those things. I have no idea what her home life was like or whether she was really happy."

"She said she was homesick," Sarah mentioned, clutching her cane for balance. "Whatever was there, she misses it. She couldn't feel the grief required to cut her wrist without having been happy at home, Walter. The loss would not have been so great."

"We all miss it," Skinner pointed out gently. "But Mulder was always volatile. I don't know what became of him. It's Dana's choice. Only she can answer those questions."

xxx 

"I don't know if I can do this," Monica admitted as Gibson dragged her up the wooden stairs of the old hospital. "It's too sad."

"No look," he replied. "How many babies do you think were born or in care here when this happened? In a town this small? There are empty ones there Monica. Nobody died in them. We'll just take an empty one, and get some other stuff we might need, and then it's done and ready and when John gets back he won't be stressing."

"And what other stuff do you suggest?" Monica asked, amused to hear his answer. Gibson growled low in his throat.

"I dunno. Forceps?"

"Gibson Praise!" Monica exclaimed. "Hell NO!"

"What?" he exclaimed. "You asked! I don't know! I just thought it would be cool to get sort of a crib ready. Don't you think John would like that? He'd be painting a spare room by now if things were different."

"Oh he'd be long past painting," Monica admitted with a chuckle. "Okay, lead me to the nursery. But do not mention forceps again, am I clear? The LAST people I would trust with those are the three of you!"

Gibson laughed and nodded in agreement as they reached the top of the stairs and turned left. She followed him in silence to the tiny nursery he had discovered on a previous visit into town. Monica forced herself not to look inside any of the half-dozen cribs and instead focussed on Gibson as he led her straight to an empty one. She peered warily inside once he pointed it out. It was certainly empty, apart from a hospital blanket folded on top of the tiny mattress. A part of her heart melted at the thought of her child in something so small in just a few more months.

"So we'll take this one then," Gibson determined. The look on her face was enough to tell him she was convinced, let alone having access to her maternal daydreams. "I'll get this, and why don't you look around for, I don't know, maybe a medical textbook or a pamphlet on all this stuff. John wants to brush up and he never got a chance to read any of the books you bought. We all should have a more 'medical' knowledge anyway."

Monica nodded thoughtfully and disappeared through a nearby door. Gibson returned his attention to the crib. It was tiny, he agreed silently with his friend. And it would be very strange to have an actual person in there sooner rather than later. Monica was getting pretty big, though she still said she was around six months. The boob-tube she still wore around her middle for their walks was stretched tight, and she was going to need to either stop walking so much or find something stronger to support her very soon.

Not that she ever really seemed to complain, not even to herself. Gibson still thought her attitude was amazing. However, they'd had a relaxing week and since John and Mulder had left their stress levels had plummeted. They had joked a lot more, and Gibson was having fun thinking about all the cool stuff they could set up in the house for the baby. He had never been around babies, and he knew he would never get the opportunity to have one of his own, so he may as well-

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Gibson froze. The smile on his face disappeared and his heart began to beat quickly in his chest. He frowned and concentrated harder.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

It was still there, he realised. It, whatever 'it' was, was fading in and out. He could barely hear it but then all of a sudden it was strong. Then it faded again. It had come to him suddenly, as though an invisible line had been crossed.

"MONICA!" he shouted in a panic before he could stop himself. He heard her jogging and he gripped the plastic edge of the crib as he shut out Monica's instant concern for him and concentrated.

-part of myself behind, and what will...if it's still there...can't, but do I need...one more time? I...

"Gibson, what?" Monica exclaimed, shattering any focus Gibson had on the faint words in his mind as she burst back into the nursery and stared at him from across the floor. They were separated by the row of cribs and his wide eyes rose to meet hers.

"I heard someone," he announced in a stunned whisper. Even as he said the words they did not seem real. Monica's lips parted in surprise. She did not need to confirm that he meant he had heard someone besides the two of them; that much was obvious. She knew Gibson had not heard another living soul outside their party since they had come above-ground. Her stomach started to churn with nausea. She realised he was gripping one of the cribs and decided she wanted to hold onto something too, so she walked over and braced herself against a nearby desk.

"Where?" she asked. It seemed to be the most important question.

"Far away," he answered. "But not too far I...They keep going in and out, as though they're in range and then out of range. Sort of like a radio tuner. That's how it is, but this is...No other channels are playing, you know?" Monica nodded, speechless. "They're, I think it's a woman but it's hard, it's too far away. She keeps saying, 'I don't know'."

"Sane or insane?" Monica asked.

"Sane, I think," he mumbled, frowning.

"Speak aloud what you hear," she urged. Gibson nodded, shutting his eyes. Monica knew it must be a strain to focus on a voice so far away when hers was right beside him, so she tried to clear her mind and just listen. She shut her eyes also, took a deep breath, and drew herself into a peaceful emptiness, silently praising herself for taking so many yoga and meditation classes over the years. Within a second her only thoughts were the hearing of his words, and her mind was blank.

"Don't cry," Gibson said, speaking not to her or himself, but echoing what he heard in his mind. "You can do this...a strong...I don't know what to tell them. If we go we'll have to stay the night and I...sleep in that room, staring at that picture of them I left behind, seeing it there and knowing he's with her...don't want him to see me fall apart again. Not after last time. But he wanted me to think, does he want me to go? Does 'he' want to go? Do I want to go... Monica, it's stronger now. Maybe I do, so what if I do? Do I deserve to go, when Sarah and Skinner can't-"

Monica gasped first and opened her eyes as Gibson stopped mid-sentence. They stared at each other for a long minute.

"Please tell me you did not just hear the name Skinner?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as her eyes filled automatically with tears. "Is it him? Is it Walter?"

"Hang on," Gibson urged, pursing his lips and covering his face with his hands as he took himself back.

xxx 

Scully allowed herself to sink to her knees in the sand as tears trickled down her cheeks. She did not deserve to go home. She just didn't. It was right there, she hadn't even realised they had been walking in that direction until she had finally read one of the signs. It was right there but she could not bring her friends there. Those people had saved her life, they had given her safety and company and laughter, and how could she bring them back to that house of pain? So many wishes had been wished in that house prior to her departure, and she had left the best part of herself behind there for safe keeping. Her life.

She did NOT want it back.

xxx 

"Oh shit," Gibson whispered. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh FUCK!"

"What?" Monica asked, staring at him intently as he again opened his eyes. She had never seen him so pale. He looked positively terrified. "What is it? Trouble?"

"Oh no," he replied. Monica was not sure if that was the answer to her question or simply an expression of dread. "Oh no, I have to go."

"Whoa," she ordered, crossing the floor and reaching for his shirt before he bolted. She held on tightly with one hand and grabbed his stubbled chin with the other, forcing him not to move and to look up into her eyes. "Hold up," she ordered, managing a worried smirk. "And where do you think you are going?"

"I have to stop them!" he insisted. "I have to stop her. Trust me. Trust me Monica. I swear. Wait here. Please, please wait here. I'll be back. I'll be back. It might be after dark but I promise you on every single person who lost their life in this hospital I will be back. If I don't go, something really important will be lost. Just, trust me. Please!"

"I trust you," Monica whispered, releasing him. He was breathing heavily and staring at her with wide, pleading eyes filled with tears. Monica had never seen him cry. He had not even threatened to cry. Not even when Mulder had broken down many times in front of them, not even when she had broken down. She did trust him, but she was scared. She had not been alone since it happened. He had to know she was scared.

"I promise," he assured her, reaching for her hands and gripping them tightly. "Monica, I would take you if you could run fast enough, but I really need to go now."

"I'll be waiting for you," she urged, blinking back tears. He pressed his lips together seriously and nodded twice, before wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly. Monica was stunned. He had never hugged her before, but maybe she was not the only one who was afraid. She rubbed his back before they parted, and then she gave him a gentle push as she took a step back. "Now go, Gibson. Save the world or whatever you have to do. I'll see you later." He nodded. "Oh and hey," she urged, pointing to his bag by the door. "Leave me some chocolate and water, will you?"

xxx 

Gibson had never been much of a runner. He had never gone to a proper school, so he had never participated in track events. He was short and uncoordinated physically, but mentally he was spot on and he had never doubted his ability to hear the thoughts of other people. He had never once questioned his sanity.

Until now.

As he sprinted over the sand, his small daypack bouncing against the back of his sweaty shirt, he really was beginning to question whether he was suffering from some sort of heat-stroke or isolation-induced dementia. That happened, right?

The sand was heavy and thick beneath his sneakers and with every step he ran he kicked more into his shoes and socks. He hadn't bothered with his sunglasses and was glad he was running to the east, away from the sun as it lowered slowly into the western sky.

The voice had come back finally, and other voices. He knew he was making ground a lot faster than they were leaving it, but he was still a long way behind. He had been running and power-walking for nearly an hour and it felt like his heart was about to explode right out of his chest, the stitch in his gut was becoming unbearable. He knew he should stop and catch his breath. But with every second he wasted, they got further away.

He wasn't sure exactly how far away they were, but he knew he was outside the town. The buildings were all behind him. He stopped running and stood as tall as he could on his top-toes, scouring the horizon in front of him. He had been going in the right direction, he was sure of it.

He could not see anything or anyone in the distance, but his glasses were smudged with sand and sweaty fingerprints, and he could see that there was a steep rise just in front of him. If he could just get onto that rise, maybe he would have a better vantage point. Maybe he would get better reception, so to speak.

Taking a deep breath, he sprinted.

Running up sand was Hell, he decided quickly. It was torture. It was damn near impossible considering it moved underfoot. It was like running up an escalator that was going down. Gibson growled and struggled to ascend. There was a reason he had directed Mulder, Monica and John around such obstacles. If there was one other thing he was not, it was a natural born climber. He swore and crawled up the last portion of the dune before reaching somewhere near the top and finally collapsing with exhaustion and the sudden desire to vomit.

His throat ached as he drew in loud gulps of air and attempted to swallow, his mouth dry. He took the backpack off and opened it to retrieve some water. He only took a small sip, still feeling sick, but as he replaced the cap he allowed himself to smile. He had actually done it, he had reached the summit, and in record time too.

Finally sure that he was not about to die from over-exertion, he allowed himself to search for the voices he had pushed away to focus all his energy on catching up. They came back to him, but they were more subdued and reflective than he had been prepared for. His heart was still beating furiously and it was hard to settle down to truly absorb the melancholy thoughts of the people he had found. People. Other humans. Survivors.

Gibson searched the bag for his sunglasses and put them on over his glasses, and then he stood on top of the mountain of sand and looked down into the valley in front of him. He wondered briefly how long he had been gone from the hospital; perhaps an hour and a half. It seemed as though he had been running for days.

His hot, hurried breath caught in his throat when he spotted a huddle of darkness in the distance. It was hard to tell whether or not it was moving, but adding the image to the voices he knew it was them. A female supersoldier was towing a crate of some sort. A blind woman was counting her steps and holding onto her uncle. The uncle was more concerned with her progress than the decision that had been made, but they were all trying very hard not to ask questions of the tortured woman leading them away from him.

They were so far away they were smaller than ants. They were barely more than specks on the horizon. But they were there. Gibson scratched his cheek as he tossed up his options. There would definitely be no more running, at least not for a few more minutes. He would never survive. There was really only one other option. He would not know if it worked until he tried, and it was worth a shot because they were definitely moving away. Their voices were getting much harder to hear with every step they all took.

He took a few deep breaths, and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"SCULLY!"

xxx 

Scully froze at the sound that reached her ears. It had almost sounded like her name. She turned around and stared curiously at the others. None of them had spoken since she had returned to them after a long, private think about her options. She had brushed the tears from her cheeks and gestured that they move on and avoid the exit that would lead her to her old home. Her new home was with them, she had decided. They had complied in silence. She was glad. One word out of her mouth and she would have been inconsolable.

"DANA!"

"Uh, did you hear that?" Sarah asked softly, looking around vaguely as she and Skinner also stopped walking and came to stand beside Scully, who had her hands on her hips. "It sort of sounded like-"

"I know," she replied. "I thought I was hearing things but it sounds like a person."

xxx 

Gibson was ecstatic that they had heard him, and he knew they had turned and were looking his way. Excitement overcame any modesty he had left and he jumped up and down and waved his arms a few times, before again cupping his mouth.

xxx 

"AGENT SCULLY!"

"There," Shannon announced, stretching an arm out as she located a small figure raised above them on a far-away dune; an eraser-sized blip on the horizon. Skinner and Scully squinted, but Shannon had superior eyesight to them both. Skinner's glasses were dirty and Scully suspected she actually needed her eyes tested again. The reading glasses in her pack would be useless in this situation, she knew.

"DANA, COME BACK!"

"Can you ALL hear that or is it just me?" Scully asked after a long pause. She had to make sure she was not going mad. She had just decided not to go back, and now some voice she could barely understand but which seemed to be addressing her as a federal agent was urging her back? It sounded loopy. It was insane. But in the distance she thought she could see the tiny, fuzzy person Shannon had pointed out. Shannon and Sarah had heard him too, and they were definitely NOT insane.

xxx

Gibson growled in frustration when he realised their hesitation. What more did he have to do? It wasn't as though he had the energy to start quoting her thoughts, not shouting them out all that way for everyone to hear. But he had to do or say something to convince her that he was real, that it was safe. And yet, he did not want to give away too much. He wanted to see her first. He wanted to tell her to her face. Plus, he was losing his voice. He only had to think for a moment before the perfect words presented themselves.

"WALTER SKINNER! TELL DOCTOR DANA SCULLY OF THE FBI THAT SHE OWES ME A GAME OF CHESS!"


	11. Chapter 11

Ten

The words came to them slurred in a distant echo, but they were words and they were clear enough to be understood. Skinner paled at the sound of his own name and Scully took a step forward when she let the words play around in her mind. How could he know, she wondered? How could anybody know who they were from that far away if it WASN'T him? It had to be. It had to be Gibson Praise.

When they had first met perhaps eight years earlier, many people had called him a chess prodigy. But to Mulder, he had always been a little cheater. No fair when you could read the opponent's mind, after all. To her, he had always been a little boy that needed love.

"I've changed my mind," she announced, her voice calm and clipped. "We have to go back."

xxx 

More than an hour later, Skinner looked up at the dune which was suddenly much steeper and higher than it had seemed from so far away.

"Where'd he go?" Shannon asked curiously, also staring upwards, expecting to see the man who had shouted to them still there.

"It's okay," Scully promised. "He knows where we are. He'll find us."

"Anyone want to tell me what's going on?" Sarah asked from beside Skinner as Scully again surged enthusiastically to the lead. They would walk around the bank of sand and into town. She was pretty sure she knew where she was, and she was absolutely certain that on the other side of the sand she would find Gibson Praise. It HAD to be him.

"Gibson is a young man," Skinner explained as he and Sarah trailed with Shannon. "Who Mulder and Scully studied and protected many years ago. He can read minds."

"Excuse me?" Sarah gasped with surprise. "Really?"

"Oh!" Shannon sighed with recognition. "That kid. I heard of him all right. I can't believe it! How did he get here?"

"I don't know," Skinner replied, lost. "I didn't even know he was still in touch with Dana. I didn't think he was."

"Is he safe?" Shannon asked. "Trustworthy?"

"Yes," Skinner promised without hesitating. "He testified at Mulder's trial on their behalf. He is an ally and, I think, their friend, in an odd way."

"He heard her then?" Sarah asked. "He recognised her thoughts and called out to her? And to you?"

"He knows me also," Skinner confirmed. "And yes. He would have heard all of us. Like when the radio screws up and you get two songs playing at once. Multiply that by however many people are around, and that is what he hears."

"That's crazy," Sarah concluded. "He reads MINDS?"

"He's probably reading yours right now and laughing."

xxx 

Scully beamed when she approached the outskirts of her hometown, abandoned but for the short and stocky young man sitting smack-bang in the middle of the sand, waiting for her. Night was falling quickly but behind her Skinner had his torch on, and its light illuminated all that was before her in a wide, strong beam.

Tears stung her eyes and once she got close enough she unstrapped the pack from around her waist, slid it heavily from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. He was walking to her by then. He knew she did not want to run. He knew how tired and sore she was. He knew it all, and she had never been so incredibly happy in all her life.

"Now that's not true," Gibson told her, his voice low and his smirk long. Scully had not seen him since Mulder had escaped from the prison, though she knew Mulder had corresponded with him by email. He looked the same and yet different, more grown up. He had a thin, stubbly beard. But he was still Gibson, she realised. And he was still alive.

"Oh my God," she whispered once he stopped in front of her. There was a long minute of silence as they stared at each other. Gibson, as usual, waited for Scully to come to him. He could hear that she wanted to hug him, and though he had hugged Monica earlier that afternoon, it had been a long time since he had even seen Scully.

She looked older, he realised sadly. Her hair was tied back but it was longer and much thicker than he remembered. It was lighter too, but her face was bright red from heat, and she was sweaty. Her blue eyes were wide and filled with tears, and her nose looked different, longer also perhaps. There were more lines around her eyes and mouth, from age and exhaustion. He knew as well as anyone how long she had been away from home. Now she had come back. He had never, ever expected her to. Not in his wildest dreams.

"I thought you were dead," he told her honestly. "I think I'm in shock."

"I think I am dead," she admitted. "Or dreaming. Is it really you?"

"I dunno," he teased, leaning around her. "Assistant Director Skinner," he called. Skinner, Sarah and Shannon had caught up and were keeping their distance, but he knew it was not fear keeping them back, but respect. He appreciated that. "Is Dana dreaming?" he asked in jest.

"If she is, we all need serious medical attention," Skinner replied with a wide grin.

"Ah," Gibson hummed thoughtfully, staring back up at Scully and softening. "Is there a doctor in the house then?" Scully sobbed then and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him and pressing his torso to hers, holding his head to her shoulder with strong hands. Gibson could do nothing but rest his hands on her waist and let her hold him. He had never been embraced so firmly or securely in all his life. "Uh, Scully?" he croaked after what seemed like an hour in her arms. "Dana you're kind of crushing me here."

"Oh God, sorry," she gushed, stepping back and brushing her hands over his shoulders and down his long arms, staring at his clothes and his fingers and then up to the glasses on his face. She rested her palm to his scruffy cheek as he grinned at her. Scully could not help but smile back. She wasn't sure Gibson had ever smiled at her. Not like he was now.

"There's a first for everything," he told her aloud. She let him go to brush the tears from her cheeks as she took another step back.

"Um," she announced finally. "This is...everyone. Skinner, and uh, Shannon McMahon, and Skinner's niece Sarah."

"Hi," Gibson greeted, going right up to Sarah and taking her nervous hand, shaking it. She was pretty, he thought, but so far out of his league they may as well be on two completely different planets. "It's okay, I won't hurt you. The others know enough about me to know that, but you don't so...it's cool okay? You all are in for SUCH a treat."

"Why?" Skinner asked, torn between suspicion and hope. Gibson was nothing if not mischievous, but he was also gentle and kind, and Skinner knew his suspicion was misplaced; a product of the times. Still, it was hard to ignore.

"You'll see," Gibson sung. He knew exactly what Skinner had been thinking but also knew they were surprised enough to tolerate him stringing them along for a little while. Skinner watched him turn back to Scully and take her hand. "Come on," Gibson urged, tugging her gently along for a few steps. "Put your bag back on, and I'll take you home."

"Home?" she whispered. "My home? Is that where you've been?"

"Yes," Gibson answered, not giving her any more information. She could do without it for the time being. "But we have to make a stop on the way. There's someone we need to collect, and since it's almost dark boy is she going to be pissed off with me!"

xxx 

Monica felt only a little fear in sitting on the sand outside the hospital. Beside her was the transparent plastic crib filled with a few extra towels and books she had found. The sun had disappeared completely perhaps half an hour earlier, and as she nibbled on the remainder of her chocolate she realised Gibson had not taken a torch with him. Had he? Surely there had been one in the backpack. They would not have gone anywhere without it. Unless he had taken it out for some reason at the house and not put it back in. They had never meant to be out so late.

She sat in darkness, without any light of her own, but her eyes were well enough adjusted to see her immediate surroundings, and she knew that if she could not see anyone, they could also not see her. Not that there was anyone out there to see.

Monica kept turning over Gibson's monologue in her mind. Something about it was unsettling and made her shiver with déjà vu. Gibson had recounted something about sleeping in a room with a picture of two people who were together, and Monica could not help thinking about the picture Mulder had taken of himself and Samantha, and how uncomfortable she had felt sleeping in that room knowing what a sanctuary it had once been for them. The shock in Gibson's voice, the way he had cursed, it had confused her. Gibson Praise was never shocked and he never cursed. The whole scenario confused her.

She sighed, leaning back on one arm while the other wrapped around her baby. She stroked her stretched skin gently as she felt a firm kick and she allowed herself to put her worries to one side and smile. He was going to be a strong little boy, she knew. She could not wait to meet him. She also could not wait to watch the three men she lived with attempt to cope as she gave birth, and she knew she would really miss the ability to capture every amusing moment on film. It would have been a real keeper of a DVD.

Monica flinched as the beam of a torch caught her attention. It was around the far corner of the street but approaching, and she sat up more defensively, waiting for Gibson to allay her fears.

"Just me!" he shouted finally. Monica heaved a huge sigh of relief and pocketed the chocolate wrapper, suddenly aware her hands were shaking. Had she really been that afraid, she wondered? Yes, she realised. She really had.

Monica stood in anticipation of Gibson's return. She tucked her hands into the back pockets of the larger jeans she had found three days previously in somebody else's bedroom cupboard. They fit her around her wider hips and she used her string of material as a belt to hold them up. It was not very comfortable, but then again wherever they were, the small town was not exactly crawling with maternity shops, and she was not yet at the stage of needing to use the fat pants or the extraordinarily obese dress Gibson had thrown in her direction with a loud laugh.

Not even close.

xxx 

"Who are we meeting?" Scully asked, still gripping Gibson's hand as they walked, her backpack once again weighing her down. "How do you know where you're going?"

"Been here about two weeks now," he answered. "We've gone exploring every day. There's lots of good stuff to steal." Scully raised an eyebrow and smirked but did not look at him. "You can talk," he taunted. "We're not the ones walking around with a box big enough to fit a giant dinghy in it. It's like Santa's sled on steroids."

"Gibson, who is 'we'?" Skinner pressed.

"You'll see," he chuckled. "She's really nice. I promise. You guys will get along great."

"Is he always like this?" Sarah asked.

"I've never seen him this happy," Skinner replied seriously. "He's enjoying our curiosity. I don't think I ever heard him laugh before."

"Why, are you surprised I can?" Gibson retorted even though he was strides ahead of them. "This way," he ordered, pressing on, tugging a frightened Scully along with him.

xxx 

Monica frowned when she heard voices, and as the torch rounded the corner she realised Gibson had not been talking to himself, but to other people. On the other side of the light, his shadow was short, but he was accompanied by more shadows. Monica tried to quickly count the taller shadows but they were moving towards her way too fast. She knew Gibson was there but she felt vulnerable and she was unarmed. He had the torch. She had nothing.

"Stop," Gibson urged suddenly. Monica heard him. They were only thirty or so metres from each other. "It's okay," he called, reassuring her across the distance that separated them. "I found the woman I heard. I had to catch up and convince her to stay before they went away. They're going to stay with us, is that okay?"

"Sure," Monica replied, taking a small step forward in the sand and resting her hands warily on her hips. She was still bathed in darkness, as were they. The torch ended somewhere between them, and Monica was not sure if she wanted to step forward now that Gibson was giving her the opportunity.

"You know what else?" he asked suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"What?" she called.

"I don't think we have to worry anymore about our inexperience over certain 'events', because I just found this hospital's best, most beautiful doctor wandering in the desert!"

Monica's breath left her as she took three quick steps forward upon hearing Gibson's words. Above all else, she trusted him. She had taken her time exploring the hospital in his absence. She had picked up files and read the names of the attending doctors until she found the one she wanted to see. She had walked past offices with names on the doors but had not gone into the one she had most wanted to. Another time, she had told herself.

A beautiful person had been the occupant of that office and the person who had signed those charts. The hospital's best doctor, one of only a couple senior physicians on staff...had not wanted to come back and sleep in a bed which faced the photo of her lover and his little sister, who were both dead to her. But she had come back, Monica realised, her stomach churning. She should not have had that chocolate, she realised dryly amidst all her surprise. Don't throw up, she urged herself. Don't throw up.

Dana Scully had come back.

xxx 

Scully could see a woman outlined in the darkness. Gibson purposefully kept the torch low. The woman had only spoken two words and Scully did not know who it was. The woman had long hair and it was out, and she was tall, but that was all. She had a somewhat Southern accent actually, Scully realised upon reflection, but 'sure' and 'what' were not enough syllables to give away her heritage of her prior state of residency.

Gibson seemed to be enjoying himself though, which meant he was at ease with the situation and it gave Scully confidence and allowed her to relax. She thought she knew him well enough to know when he was baiting.

There was something about the way he had said she was the best doctor on staff that made her think that she was known to the woman in front of her. And after a long and trying career in the FBI and then a career in near seclusion as a medical doctor, there were not many women left on her list of considered friends or even acquaintances. Up until Skinner had found her in her mother's home, she'd had no friends. Only Mulder.

"That's not true," Gibson whispered beside her. "She has always been your friend."

xxx 

Monica took another step forward as she heard Gibson mumble something she couldn't understand. She thought she knew what was going on and the anticipation was seriously making her feel sick. If he did not get his act together fast she WAS going to throw up. She needed to make that very clear to him. She heard him laugh, and suddenly she felt hurt by his amusement. Didn't he know how badly she wanted that woman beside him to be Dana Scully? Didn't he realise what an impossible dream that was?

Maybe that's why he's happy Mon, she told herself, taking a deep breath and taking another step forward.

"Show yourselves," she ordered, her voice firm and authoritative. "I want to see you."

xxx 

Instantly Scully realised the quasi-Southern voice, the intonation, tone and accent had not changed. She could close her eyes and remember because she had done so, many times.

Agent Scully. Dana do you know what you're saying? Text from the Bible. The Qur'an. The very word of God on the surface of an alien spacecraft.

You say it as if you have a choice.

Nine is completion. You've evolved through the experiences of all the other numbers to a spiritual realization that this life is only part of a larger whole.

Gibson was right. Scully knew it suddenly and without question. This was her friend. It had been a comparatively brief but integral friendship in her life during a harrowing, painful time. Scully did not know how to explain it, but Monica Reyes was standing not a few metres from her and she was still moving forward. One cautious step at a time.

Two could play at that game, Scully countered, breaking into an excited smile.

xxx 

"You came back," Monica announced as soon as Scully dropped her bag and closed the distance between them in the dark. Gibson raised his torch to waist-height and Scully gasped when she stopped a metre from Monica and took in her figure.

"You're pregnant," she gasped. Monica grinned and nodded. Scully went to return the smile but paused, her eyes filling with tears. "You would have been-"

"Three months when all this happened," she finished, easily predicting the observation and gesturing to the sand around them. "Nice timing, huh."

"Oh it's okay," Scully promised, nearly running the final distance and pulling Monica to her. "It's okay," she repeated in an intimate whisper as her hands tangled in her friend's loose, dark hair and she felt the strength of Monica's arms around her. Scully remembered the last time they had hugged this way; William had been gone.

"I can't believe you're here," Monica whispered against her. "We never thought we'd see you again. We thought we were too late. It's so good to see you."

"I'm here," Scully whispered, to assure herself as much as Monica. They pulled away finally and stared at each other, until Scully's attention was diverted to the very obvious baby bump between them. "Can I?" Scully asked. Monica nodded casually, and she watched as Scully rested her hands on her. Monica bit her lower lip when she saw the expression on Scully's face; she remembered it well. Doctor Scully had taken over from Dana for a few minutes. Monica did not mind, but it did make her nervous.

"I think I'm nearing seven months now," she mumbled. "Thereabouts."

"Great," Scully assured her with a smile, releasing her and nodding. "I can't wait to get a look at you in the light. Where have you been? How did you get here? Are you squatting in my house? Since when? How did you know? What are you doing with Gibson?"

"Well-"

"AHEM!" Gibson exclaimed loudly from behind them. They turned to face him and he raised the torch higher so their faces were illuminated. "Ladies, if I don't stop you now you won't be able to stop yourselves. Monica, you need to meet the others here and then we're going HOME and having dinner and THEN you can both chatter the night away. I would join you if I hadn't just busted my ass trying to get these guys' attention."

"But-"

"Monica!" he insisted. "I know you have spent the last three months without any contact with another woman, but please, if I don't break you up Skinner is going to, because he's right behind me and I really fear for my safety if he doesn't get to see you for himself."

Monica laughed and gestured for whoever was behind Gibson to come forward into the narrow beam of light Gibson was still happy to provide them. She stared with wide, dewy eyes as Skinner stalked around Gibson. He was grinning. He was still bald and broad, and his glasses had survived his journey, whatever that may have been. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he looked exactly how she remembered, if not a little tanned.

"I never expected this," Monica assured him as he pulled her silently into a gentle hug. "Gibson never told me who he had heard. He just said...I never expected." Monica started crying when she felt Scully's hand rest against her upper arm. Skinner held her more tightly as she cried, and aware she was in good hands Scully returned to Gibson and the two women still behind him.

She approached Sarah and took her arm gently.

"It's just me," she promised. "This woman is an old friend of ours from the FBI. We worked together. She's a few years younger than me, tall, thin, brunette, brown eyes. She also appears to be pregnant. She's very kind. Her name is Monica Reyes."

"No it's not," Gibson interrupted smugly. "Guess again."

"What?" Scully asked.

"She's married," he told her.

"Oh," Scully sighed, shaking her head. "That's not important now." Gibson rolled his eyes. Sometimes Scully really had no idea.

"So she's your friend?" Sarah asked.

"Yes," Scully promised. She turned to Shannon. "It doesn't look like I'll be making it south with you," she stated. "Monica can't travel long distances anymore. The rest of you can do what you want, but I'll be staying here with them a few more months at least."

Then again, Gibson corrected as he listened to her decisive words and watched Shannon simply nod, maybe Scully had more of an idea than he gave her credit for.

xxx 

Scully and Monica grinned at each other as they walked side by side half an hour later. Scully was leading them all back to her home in the dark, a heavy-duty torch illuminating the way across the sand.

"So," she repeated. "You're squatting in my house."

"We appear to be, yes," Monica confirmed with a laugh. By the excited, happy look in Scully's sparkling blue eyes, Monica knew Gibson had not said anything about John or Mulder. As far as Scully was concerned she had stumbled across just two of her friends. "Thank you for leaving so much food, by the way," she added, trying to test Scully's assumptions of just how thoroughly her house may have been explored by its visitors.

"I had provisions," Scully answered. Ah, Monica realised. She was not the only one playing it safe. She knew instantly that Scully would not voluntarily mention the bunker. Perhaps she was trying hard not to, Monica realised, considering what she had left behind there. "Have either of you been sick?" Scully asked after a minute's thoughtful silence.

"That's an understatement," Monica teased. "But not for a while. Just every now and then. I feel really good. I know Gibson knows that but he still doesn't believe me."

"Do you think I'm completely deaf or something?" Gibson asked from behind them. He was carrying the plastic crib awkwardly in front of him. "Jeez. Like I said before, I don't know what I'm doing with all this baby stuff!"

"Well I do," Scully promised, squeezing Monica's hand briefly. "I don't want either of you to worry about that. So what are you doing out here? I don't exactly live in the city."

"It's private, secluded," Monica explained. "Pretty comfortable despite that shocking bed in your spare room." Scully smirked, nodding in agreement.

"It's not exactly easy to find though Monica," she pointed out with smug curiosity as she spoke a very obvious truth. "Did you just 'stumble' across it?"

"Pretty much," she answered. "We'll explain inside when we can get some proper light and sit down. While we walk, why don't you tell me what on earth you're doing with Shannon McMahon and Walter Skinner?"

"Oh," Scully chuckled, blushing in the dark. She momentarily cast the torch at a higher level, picking out her house in the distance. They were not far. "They found me in DC," she explained. "I was in a bad sort of way, at my mother's. They were looting the houses for food and water to put in the raft, and Skinner recognised the block as mom's and came looking out of curiosity, and that's where I was."

"Wow," Monica commented. "That's coincidence for you."

"I wasn't exactly jumping for joy," Scully replied, stretching out her left arm and moving the torch to it to get Monica's attention. "I didn't have any real feelings about being rescued at the time, but in hindsight I'm glad coincidence took a turn in my favour."

"Oh," Monica whispered, her eyes widening at the sight of the long, jagged scar on the far left of Scully's wrist and the implications it held. It was not a scar Monica ever could have imagined seeing on somebody normally so self-confident, but there it was. Scully had not even tried to hide it.

"I don't think I was ever capable of taking it further," Scully admitted as she returned the light to their path and walked on, her chin held stubbornly high. "But it was nice to see familiar faces when I came to."

"Bet you thought you were dreaming," Monica teased gently. Scully scoffed.

"I did, and dreams like that were better and more welcome than anything I had been dreaming up until then. Trust me Monica, there are things-"

"Don't explain yet," Monica urged, interrupting. She had a feeling Scully had been about to say something about Mulder, and Monica did not want to hear it yet. "Wait until we're inside and sitting down and facing each other properly."

"Okay," Scully whispered, confused by the way Monica kept brushing off parts of the story that needed to be told for completion. She and Gibson had been living in Scully's house, after all. Hadn't they noticed Mulder's photo of Samantha on the shelf, or his clothes in the bedroom, or the inside of his cluttered, wannabe X-Files office? Didn't they think it was odd she was not with him? And how on earth had they found her house? She had a silent number, the letterbox was not marked. Could it really have just been coincidence, the same way she had been found by Skinner?

Had they really all only survived by coincidence? By fate? Was that the only reason they had all found each other? Somehow it did not seem enough.

"How long have you lived here?" Monica asked, making conversation as they neared the house, a large, dark rectangle of blackness amidst a sky lit only by a handful of stars.

"Before all this, a bit over three years," Scully answered. "I worked at the hospital as a medical doctor, but I'm sure you knew that since Gibson mentioned it."

"I did. We found your name on a bunch of records. I was looking for signs of you there."

"Well you wouldn't have been disappointed," Scully sighed. "I was everywhere in that hospital. That's what started this whole mess."

Monica frowned. It was hard not to say something to reassure her that Mulder regretted what he had said. She did not want to spoil the surprise, and she wanted to make sure Scully was sitting down when Monica told her. If Scully passed out, Monica would not be able to catch her. Monica had never actually seen Scully faint, but after seeing the scar on her wrist she did not want to play around with her friend's particularly delicate emotions. She would be upfront and honest but they would be calm and sitting and looking one another in the eye. That was just good manners.

"Where did you live before this?" Scully asked, her voice vague as she stopped at the front door to the house and shone the torch light behind her, making sure the others were still following and that they knew they had arrived.

"Texas," Monica answered simply, ignoring the look of surprise that flitted only briefly across Scully's face. She knew Scully and the others had been journeying south, and she knew Scully assumed Gibson would have known to do the same. Monica knew that in Scully's mind it could only mean one thing; they had gone in the wrong direction on purpose, and Monica knew Scully was wondering whether she and Mulder were the reason. Scully was spot-on, as usual, but she would still be surprised when Monica told her the whole story. Gibson was right; they would be up all night talking.

Monica caught his eyes as he stopped beside her and he smirked smugly. 'I told you so', his expression said. She only grinned at him. Staying up all night talking was fine by her. Men were only good for so much conversation. Monica had not used her daily quota of words for many months and she had stored them all up for just this occasion, even though up until that afternoon she had merely been storing them up. She could not wait.

"Do we have something nice in the house?" she asked Gibson softly as Scully moved forward to consult with Skinner, Shannon and Skinner's blind niece, Sarah.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure there's some champagne but you can't have any. I got a bag of marshmallows. Are you suggesting I share them?"

"Maybe just with me," Monica laughed. "But I do think a toast is order. Don't you?"

"Oh yeah," he whispered, shaking his head. "In all my life Monica, I don't think I've ever, EVER been actually, truly 'surprised'. Not until today."


	12. Chapter 12

Eleven

Scully was nervous, and she did not know why. She thought she would be nervous because she was returning to her old home, but that was not the case. Even the broken front door did not bother her; Gibson and Monica had obviously broken in. She had crossed the threshold with little fear, hesitating only for an extra second. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden floors was familiar and welcome, and instead of fear or sadness there was a comforting warmth spreading through her body which she could not explain. It embraced her. It made her feel safe and urged her to relax, causing her to shiver.

Just that feeling of coming home, she presumed. Mulder's spirit greeting her, perhaps.

The raft had been locked and left out the front. Nobody could steal it because nobody besides Shannon could move it and considering Shannon never slept she was its constant guardian. She and Sarah had stayed behind outside so Sarah could find a space in the sand to relieve herself. Scully felt sorry for her in not being able to see and needing someone with her, but her embarrassment had abated to a certain extent over time. As Scully told her often, she was a doctor and Shannon had been in the army. Combined, there wasn't anything either of them hadn't seen before.

Scully sighed as she looked around her living room. She suddenly knew why she was nervous. Monica and Gibson were fussing. Gibson was not a young man who had ever fussed over anything. He was always calm and collected, but perhaps her arrival had shaken him, or perhaps he had over-exerted himself in trying to catch up to them in time.

"I'll get it," he announced suddenly, bolting upstairs. Energy certainly was not the problem, Scully realised, confused. He had apparently read Monica's mind and Scully shared a look of uncertainty with Skinner. Thankfully he looked as lost as she felt.

"We only have a few beds set up," Monica explained, as Shannon and Sarah returned to the living room from the front in silence. Shannon shut the front door and wedged a chair under the handle to prevent it being opened from the outside. "Until we find some more a few of us might need to sleep outside. It will be more comfortable than on these floors. Dana, your room has been kept for you."

"Kept for me?" Scully asked, amused by the nervous expression on Monica's face.

"Neither of us wanted to sleep there," she explained, blushing.

"Well I don't know if I particularly want to sleep there either," she admitted. "So I will only spend the night in that room if you're with me, because you're pregnant and you should have a proper bed."

"She's done okay without one until now," Gibson stated seriously as he returned with an armful of blankets and pillows. He dumped them all on the floor between the couch and fireplace. "We haven't endangered her, Scully."

"No, I know," Scully assured him with a wide smile. "But things will change. Trust me; I've been pregnant. It is NOT comfortable." Monica chuckled as Gibson turned a bright shade of red. "Okay so all this standing around is a bit strange," Scully announced quickly. "What's going on? Are we eating, going to bed? It's up to you, but if I get a say I'd like some answers before we do anything."

"So would I," Skinner added seriously, his voice deep and probing. "I want to know what the two of you are doing together and what the hell you're doing here."

"We came looking for Scully," Gibson replied obviously, shrugging. "And-"

"Hang on," Scully interrupted. Her mind was sorting through the information she was hearing more slowly than usual. She had only just processed Gibson's promise to her.

We haven't endangered her, Scully.

We?

"Who is we?" she asked. Gibson's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in shock when he realised she had picked up on his mistake. He hadn't even realised he had made one. Uh-oh, he thought.

"I don't think we can put this off any longer," Monica sighed, saving him from Scully's slowly deepening, suspicious glare. "Dana we need to talk about how we found this place. Let's set up some proper lighting and open some food and some drink and have dinner and uh, we can talk. I think you all might like to hear this."

xxx 

"Well I would like to make a toast," Skinner announced as he sat cross-legged on the blankets in the living room an hour later. Everyone had a glass of champagne besides Shannon and Monica, and Scully grinned as she waited for him to come up with the words she had been trying to find for herself since she had heard her name on the wind. "To old friends," he continued. He turned to Scully and smiled. "And to coming home."

"Aren't you glad I told them?" Sarah asked her. Scully laughed, nodding. She was.

"Cheers," she whispered, leaning across the centre of the blanket and touching her glass to Skinner's, silently inviting everyone else to do the same. Beside her, Monica giggled and it took all of Scully's energy not to cry. She felt like she was in ten places at once and didn't know what to do. Even though the food in front of her was somewhat of a banquet she wasn't sure she was hungry. She was too excited, and happy, and terribly, terribly sad that Mulder was not with her to share in the wonderful happiness she felt in that moment.

Skinner, sitting directly opposite Scully, saw the tears first, and he suspected Gibson had known it was coming as well, though she had only been smiling a second ago. Maybe they had all been surprised.

Scully was not aware of putting her glass down and she felt Monica gently ease it from between her fingers as it hovered dangerously close to the blanket. Scully's other hand had shielded her face as she sobbed, and once her fingers were free of the glass she brought it up to help hide her. Her face felt flushed but she could not stop the tears or the way her chest constricted, squeezing her heart and her stomach, squeezing the grief out of her like it was as smooth and gentle as toothpaste. It was anything but, Scully thought. In her throat and her eyes it felt razor sharp, and her happiness did little to quell the pain.

Monica and Sarah, on either side of her, rested hands on her back, and Monica reached up to draw a few long strands of hair from around her face, tucking them behind her ear. She remembered Mulder picking up one of Scully's hairs in the bunker and running it through his fingers. He had let it fall slowly back to the table, and if that moment had not been heartbreaking enough she was listening to Scully cry over something she wrongly thought was lost.

"Dana-" Sarah whispered, worried.

"I'm so sorry," she wept, brushing her cheeks self-consciously and sitting back up, sniffling. She suddenly looked tired, Monica realised. Just like that. Her blue eyes had become bloodshot and puffy, and her pale face was patchy and red. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

"No you're not," Monica hushed, running a tender hand along her ponytail, settling it down the centre of her back. "But you will be. I'll start, okay? Don't interrupt me. Don't anybody interrupt me. Just listen. Okay?"

"Okay," Scully whimpered, drying her face and staring at Monica with searching, confused eyes. "What is it?"

"I'm married," she stated. "Did you know that?"

"I know you have rings," Scully mentioned, reaching down to rest her hand against Monica's, feeling the sharp diamond and white gold bands there. Monica turned her palm over and held Scully's hand with both of hers. She turned herself around to sit cross-legged facing her. Scully unconsciously did the same. She got the feeling Monica wanted to speak directly to her and not to anybody else, though they were welcome to listen.

"Do you know who my husband is?" Monica asked gently. Scully pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Aren't you curious?"

"I...I didn't want to ask in case he...was dead."

"You thought I might be in the same position as you," Monica stated calmly. "That I lost someone close to me too." Scully nodded, not questioning how Monica knew she had lost Mulder even though she immediately picked up on Monica's unusual choice of words. Though obviously she had looked around the house, Scully reminded herself. She had been free to make that assumption when Scully had returned without Mulder. Duh.

"Are, um, are you?" she asked cautiously.

"No," Monica smiled widely. "No, my husband is alive, Dana. It's John. John Doggett."

"I remember him," Scully stated, unable to help rolling her eyes and smiling at the way Monica was speaking to her. As though she had completely forgotten the man? Honestly!

"We had been living in Texas," Monica continued. "Now here is where I need you to just hear me. You can ask whatever you want at the end." Scully nodded seriously, her bemused smile fading as she bit her lower lip, her eyes displaying both hope and dread in various shades. Monica managed a comforting smile, taking a deep breath.

"Just tell her Monica," Gibson whispered from somewhere beside them. Scully did not dare turn her head away from her friend's wise, brown eyes. She had missed them so much, she realised. She had thought about Monica and John often, but she had never allowed herself to miss them. Now she was free to admit that she had missed them.

Every day.

"On the night this started," Monica explained, focussed on her own thoughts. Every word that came out of her mouth and how it sounded was important. She needed Scully to understand. "John and I were reading. The phones had gone out the day before, and there were problems with the television and radio, so we were reading before bed. There was a furious knocking on the door, and John got up to answer it. When he came back, Gibson was with him." Scully nodded, frowning. "He wasn't alone."

Scully raised her eyebrow and grimaced and Monica smiled reactively. Old times, she realised of her friend's curious expression. Scully had really not changed one bit.

"Gibson had to catch a bus to get to our home," she continued. "He came to warn us. He can explain this to you later but he didn't come here because he knew you had provisions for your safety here. Mulder must have bragged in one of his emails." Scully smirked sadly. That she could believe. "When Gibson was at the bus station waiting to board, another bus pulled up near where he was, and he heard this person he brought with him to our home that night. This person had come to see Gibson, and it was just dumb luck Gibson happened to be standing close enough to recognise him. You see, if he hadn't, this person would have gone to Gibson's home and he would not have survived, but Gibson made him buy another ticket and forced him to tag along to come and find us."

"Okay," Scully whispered, doing her best not to think and just to listen, as Monica had requested, but she was confused. If the story was true, where was John, and where was this other person?

"There wasn't time to send him home, you see. We stayed underground for five weeks," Monica continued softly. The only indication she was nervous was the way her hands were shaking as they held Scully's, but Scully gripped her fingers tightly to calm her.

"It's okay," she assured Monica when there was a long pause. "I'm listening."

"When we came outside, well I'm sure you had a similar reaction." Scully nodded seriously. "Gibson told us we needed to go south, that in Mexico humans had survived, and that there would be the means for us to survive there too. It would have only taken a week to cross the border, perhaps only a month to reach one of those places. But as you can see we did not go to Mexico. You see...the person we were with had spent the past five weeks in a state of deep regret, locked in a basement with one person who could read his mind and two others he barely knew. There was no privacy, you realise, and though he was very good about it, he was hurting badly. So...We took the first vote. We decided not to go south, but to journey north-east, to Virginia."

"W-w-why?" Scully asked, her heart hammering in her chest. She thought she knew the answer. Monica stared at her for a long minute before she let the last two words roll off her tongue, her voice barely above a whisper.

"For you."

"Oh my God," Skinner whispered from behind them, staring at Gibson and silently asking him if his sudden epiphany was correct. Gibson merely turned the corner of his lips upwards in a tiny smile. His focus was on Scully, Skinner knew that, but he was grateful for the recognition.

"For me," Scully repeated on a deep exhalation. Monica nodded.

"We took some other votes along the way. It took us two months to get here because I was so sick and we had to rest so often. But we got here, Dana. We were led straight here by this person. It was not luck or coincidence that brought us to this house. It was not fate. It was human will, and the sheer determination of this person to know...if he had made the biggest mistake of his life in walking out on you over something selfish."

A tear escaped Scully's lower lid and trickled down her cheek as she removed her front teeth from her lower lip, allowing it to part from her upper lip naturally. Her usually full blue eyes looked vacant, Monica realised. She hoped Scully did not go into shock.

"When we got here," she continued quickly. "We didn't waste any time. We went underground. He took us down there. We knew you wouldn't be there because Gibson couldn't hear you, but we all felt you in there. You had been gone a long time by then."

"Are you saying-" Scully hesitated. No matter how much she wanted to, she could not complete the sentence. She could not say it. She could not say his name. He was alive?

"Go upstairs Dana," Gibson whispered, breaking the silence. He hated her fear. He had to prove it to her and he knew how. "You left a photo behind. We all saw it when we got here. It's not there now. Go and check."

"Okay," Scully whispered innocently, letting go of Monica's hands and standing, stepping around the blanket and the people sitting in a circle around it. She walked upstairs slowly as though in a trance, but she returned quickly. She said nothing until she had sat back down in her place. Her palms were spread out over the blanket in front of her, needing to ground herself. The photo of Mulder and Samantha as smiling children was indeed missing. That photo had accompanied Mulder everywhere, and only one person beside Mulder had ever been allowed to touch it. Her.

"He took it with him," Monica whispered, clearly seeing the indecision and disbelief in Scully's expression in the dim lamplight. It told Monica that Scully knew what she had seen but that she still was not sure of what it meant. She wasn't ready to accept. "He's gone with John," she added, doing her best to sound upbeat. They're okay, her voice said.

"W-w-" Scully's own voice failed her as her eyes filled with fresh tears. She was not sure what kind of tears they were. They felt like nothing tears. Suddenly there was no pain or happiness or grief or relief. Her mind was blank. She wanted to ask where he had gone with John, but she couldn't, because what if they never came back?

"Uh," Monica chuckled sadly, reaching down to cover Scully's hands with her own. "Dana they've gone to DC."

"What?" Skinner exclaimed from behind them, sitting forward in surprise. Monica nodded as Gibson also laughed softly. "We just came from there."

"And if I had been with Mulder instead of John I probably would have found you earlier," Gibson explained. "But we needed a break from them."

"Why the hell did they go to DC?" Shannon asked, confused.

"Well," Monica began, returning her full attention to Scully. "Dana, Mulder found what you left for him, under the covers of the bed." Scully swallowed a sob and nodded. "We all read your letter. We decided he should go. I had already decided that we would stay here until after the baby was born. It's not a long trip, considering what we did to get here, and...If there was even the slightest chance they could find you- It had always been a long shot, but just to know you had survived; it was such a triumph for us Dana. They left not long after we got here. They would be on their way back now or very close to leaving. I'm not sure how long they would have taken to search. When they left they had no plan beyond the FBI you mentioned in your letter and your mother's."

"The Hoover building's demolished," Skinner mumbled, staring cautiously at Scully when he saw her pale. "Dana-"

"Oh God, it's a mess," she whispered. "They're going to see-"

"See what?" Monica asked. Scully turned her head to stare at Skinner with wide, desperate eyes.

"How much blood did I lose?" she asked. He stared at her blankly and shook his head, unsure. "How MUCH?" she screamed, her voice breaking. "Did it look bad, I mean, oh my God-"

"It's okay," Monica interrupted hurriedly, reaching for Scully's hands as they began to shake. "Scully look at me," she urged. She lifted one of her hands to Scully's face and turned it gently back to her. "Dana," she hissed. "It doesn't matter. You are not there. That is all they will care about. Obviously you walked away."

"We left the kitchen in a state," Shannon added. "Wrappers and sponges and stuff like that. I don't know Mulder but I know John Doggett, and he won't miss something like that. They'll figure out that you were treated and that you moved on."

"But you don't understand I...He's going to think that's how I wanted it to be, but it wasn't. I just wanted to feel him again and I let him out from where I kept him all that time and it hurt so bad and I don't even remember...I just remember Skinner sitting with me on the couch and I asked him for pills so I could pass out because I didn't want to be awake anymore and, and then I woke up in this house. They're going to think that I..."

"What, that you're human?" Monica asked gently, brushing her thumb across Scully's flushed cheek while her other hand kept a firm grip of Scully's trembling hands. "You were completely alone. Do you know what that thought did to him for all that time? You have nothing to be ashamed of. I know, beyond any doubt, I would not have been able to survive this on my own, Dana, but you did."

"I had help, it wasn't me," she insisted weakly.

"So what?" Monica pressed, removing her hand from Scully's face and shrugging. "That doesn't mean you deserve to be here less than any of us. For goodness sakes, we've all had help in this room. It only makes us stronger."

"And...They're coming back?" Scully asked timidly, her voice gentle but hopeful. Monica smiled, nodding.

"They were allowed to leave on one condition; that Fox Mulder returned to this house alive, no matter what. I'll have John's head if he comes back without him."

"They would have been in DC when we left," she whispered. Monica nodded. "Did he find everything I left?"

"Yes," Monica assured her. "He was up all night reading through your journal. I came and sat with him for a little while. He's got it with him. He doesn't let it out of his sight. That was a cute picture of you as a kid you left too." Scully managed a watery smile.

"I remembered that he liked it."

"He still does," Monica promised, catching Scully's eyes as she saw her smile strengthen. "Are you okay?"

"Is he really alive?" she asked. "You're not making it up?"

"Dana," Monica laughed. "I wouldn't lie about something like this. Mulder has been a wonderful friend to us all this time, but not a second has gone by in a day when he hasn't thought of you. Ask Gibson. He will come back here extremely disappointed in himself for not being able to find you. I was prepared for that. I had been preparing myself to help him through that. But to have you here...I'm actually afraid he might have a stroke."

"I feel like I'm having one right now," Scully whispered, suppressing a sudden giggle as Monica laughed.

"Can I ask something?" Gibson asked once he saw Scully's posture relax and heard a stunted but genuine laugh. It was something he had never heard from her in their old lives, and it made him smile.

"What?" Monica asked, turning back around to face him as Scully did the same, the two women rejoining the group. Shannon was to Monica's right, next to Skinner. Gibson was between Skinner and Sarah. It looked as though none of them had moved the whole time, and Monica was glad she hadn't lost her nerve. It had not been as hard as she had feared, in the end. Scully's earnest eyes were easy to face, particularly when the news was good.

"Can we eat now?" Gibson pressed obviously. Scully laughed, shaking her head and blushing. She was actually starting to feel hungry. The shock was fading. She repeated Monica's words over in her mind. Fox Mulder. Returned to 'this' house. Alive. Scully could only pray that nothing disastrous had happened to prevent that promise being fulfilled, because if nothing else Mulder was a man of his word. Mulder, she repeated. Mulder. Alive.

"Let's eat," Skinner agreed quickly, reaching for the warm champagne he had abandoned beside him. "If this news isn't cause for celebration I don't know what is."

xxx 

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable here?" Monica asked in the dark, kneeling beside the air mattress on the wooden floors in Scully's spare room.

"I'll be fine," Sarah promised from just below her, lying on her side, her head resting on a fluffy pillow. "Seriously this is the most comfortable I've been in a very long time." Monica chuckled.

"I can imagine. If you need anything during the night, you remember where the room is?"

"Yes but I'll be okay. I've got water and my bucket and I'm warm enough."

"Good," Monica replied, happy Sarah had anticipated all of her questions.

"Thank you Monica," she whispered. "Goodnight."

"Night," Monica replied kindly, standing and leaving, letting the door shut gently behind her.

Scully was sitting on her bed in her room when Monica returned, staring at the shelf from which Mulder had removed his picture of his sister. The gas lamp had been moved in with her and shone brightly from its resting place on the otherwise empty bedside table that Mulder had told them was hers. Scully was yet to return her photo of them to it.

Scully had been lucid and happy to chat for a few hours after Monica had told her the truth, but since they had all begun to retire to bed she had become mute. Monica hoped to get her talking again before she slept, but she was not sure if that was what Scully really needed. Monica didn't even know what she herself needed. She could not believe Dana Scully was sitting right in front of her. Monica had not grieved for Scully like Mulder had, and she had pushed him to continue his journey to trace her, but a part of Monica had never expected her to have survived. She completely understood Scully's stunned speechlessness because she felt the same way.

"Are you sure it's okay if I stay here Dana?" she asked cautiously from the door. "You don't want privacy?" Scully turned to her, startled by her voice and the question.

"Of course you can stay," she whispered, standing and shifting her weight from side to side. "I was just...thinking. Is he...okay?"

"Mulder?" Monica asked. Scully pressed her lips together to hold back her emotions and nodded. Monica smiled. "Physically he's fantastic. He and John got a bit thin for a while. They all took a vote and made me take double rations so they weren't getting as much food but uh, they took a lot with them. None of us have been sick, well, besides me."

"I'll do a proper exam tomorrow," Scully stated. Monica simply nodded.

"I would like that," she conceded. "I...I'm not worried, but I'm still glad you're here. Can I uh, see your wrist?"

"Sure," Scully whispered, as Monica entered the bedroom properly and shut the door. Scully sat back down on the bed and Monica followed, balancing on the edge of the mattress with one leg folded partly underneath her. Scully offered up her left arm willingly and Monica held it gently. She huffed, relieved, when she realised Scully never could have killed herself with such a cut, but it certainly would have bled.

"You kind of missed the runway," she teased.

"As Skinner told me, I was so distressed I wouldn't have been able to hit it if it was lit up in lights," Scully assured her. "I was in a real state, Monica. It took me weeks to feel like myself again. Skinner refers to it as a panic attack, but it was more than that. If they hadn't found me, I don't know, I might have gone completely mad."

"I could never imagine you losing control like this," Monica admitted. "Even when I thought about what you wrote in that letter, you never said anything definitely, and then you left that Psalm highlighted and it was such a strong message. It was confident. It spoke of courage. I don't think any of us really understood what you were feeling, or what you really meant or intended to do when you got to DC."

"The Psalm had given me courage," Scully whispered certainly. "But in leaving it behind I...was leaving that support behind. If Mulder came back I wanted him to have it." Monica grinned widely, her eyes shining with tears. "What?" Scully asked.

"That's the first time I've heard you say his name," she told her. "You're feeling okay?"

"Yes," Scully hissed. "I...I dreamed about seeing him again so often."

"I know," Monica explained. "Mulder showed me some of your drawings in your journal that night I sat with him. He said the drawing on the back page was his favourite, with the lyrics, and I just know that drawing will come true, Dana. I didn't know it then, and I cried with him that night, but I know it now."

"He cried?" Scully asked, tears suddenly filling her eyes. Monica softened.

"For the first two weeks every day," she whispered. "Not that he wanted us to know. He waited until we were all trying to sleep. But we all heard. It broke our hearts. Gibson told me he had a lot of flashbacks."

"He has a photographic memory," Scully reminded her. "He can replay anything he wants, but uh, sometimes he doesn't get a choice and it just comes to him. But his mind hasn't done that to him since we came to live here. Neither of us suffered in this house. The dreams faded. We had a life. It wasn't perfect but...I loved it. You know I thought he was dead right from the moment it happened."

"I know," Monica whispered.

"I've been living with this grief for so long...just as I did before, and when we left DC last week I told myself that I was moving on, and that I could be happy. I don't know what to feel anymore Monica. I don't know if I can let go of that grief or take a backward step from the promises I made to myself. I don't know how to move on anymore."

"Just take it day by day," she suggested. "Honestly if when they come back you and he shut yourselves in this room for a week, none of us will care. We came all this way. Sometimes he started to give up and I would ask him what he wanted and he just kept saying he wanted you. That alone should tell you that it will be okay, it will work out."

"Where is everyone sleeping?" Scully asked. Monica smiled. Apparently Scully had accepted her reassurances and relaxed enough to focus on something else. Or perhaps she was just avoiding confronting her emotions by changing the topic. Either way Monica didn't mind. She was enjoying talking. She wanted to communicate with her friend.

"Sarah is in the spare room on the mattress, and Gibson is on the couch. Skinner and Shannon are outside in sleeping bags by the, uh, the 'raft'. And, odd question but Gibson obviously knows so didn't ask before but, what is Shannon even doing amidst all this?"

"You know how Gibson came to warn you?" Scully asked. Monica nodded. "Shannon went to warn Skinner. They'd had sort of a relationship in the past; I'm not sure whether it was ongoing at the time. Obviously...Shannon thought it wouldn't be fair to Skinner to continue down that path, but they, I think they still have a relationship. They are very close, but they are insanely discreet."

"Do they sleep together?" Monica hissed curiously. Scully's eyes widened in ignorance and she shrugged.

"I think so?" she queried. "Supersoldiers are still sexually human so-" Monica's mouth opened in shock and Scully giggled. "What?" she asked. "They are!"

"I just got a mental image of that!" she exclaimed loudly. "Thanks a lot!" Scully laughed more freely as Monica playfully shoved her.

xxx

Gibson rolled his eyes as he lay on the couch with his arms folded over his chest, listening to the raucous laughter from upstairs. Monica and Scully were giggling like immature teenage girls at the thought of their old boss doing the nasty with a supersoldier. But that thought was pretty funny, he conceded. And gross. Gibson let himself chuckle and relax. Everyone would sleep well that night, he determined. Everyone was tired from a long and emotionally exhausting day.

Gibson was happy Monica was happy, and he was overjoyed Scully and Skinner had survived. He had felt bad not warning them, but he'd had to make a choice.

They had all made choices, but somehow, despite all of those decisions, they had all found each other. There were just two people missing, and Gibson could not wait for them to come home. Mulder and John would be SO surprised, and so happy. Gibson was excited. He had honestly enjoyed the extra opportunities for silence over the past fortnight, but suddenly he was thrilled by the prospect of having other voices in his life again. He had not realised how much he had missed them.

Mulder and Scully together had always been a powerful motivating force. When Gibson had been with them, he had heard them together. They had often been hoping to reach the same goal but in different ways, and it had always sort of blended together so that in the end he only really heard both their voices saying the one thing, the one path they took. That meant something important to him. Something he had no ability or need to define.

Neither deserved to live a life without the other, and Gibson was grateful he would no longer have to live with Mulder's passionate grief and guilt. It overpowered everything. Gibson had caught only glimpses of Scully's own pain in the short time they had spent together that day, but he knew her regrets had been just as debilitating. It was good Skinner had found her. She had always liked to think she was okay without other people around, but that had never been completely true. Gibson knew that. He always had.

Gibson shut his eyes and smiled at the atmosphere of friendship and hope that had warmed the expansive, darkened house. Upstairs, Monica and Scully had settled and were slowly falling asleep side by side amidst softly-spoken stories of their pasts. Without the burden of any negative thoughts, his own or those of others, Gibson allowed their gentle, emotional whisperings lull him into his own, peaceful slumber.


	13. Chapter 13

Twelve

Scully walked downstairs slowly sometime the next morning. She could hear voices and movement in the kitchen, and she presumed all five of her houseguests were in the midst of helping themselves to a mishmash of preserved foods for breakfast. It reassured her that though she had woken up in bed alone she had not dreamed the previous day. Or for that matter, the alien invasion itself, she realised. If she had just dreamed the previous day she would have woken up in the sand. That would not have been a welcome surprise.

Unless she was still dreaming. Scully hesitated on the stairs, thinking back to an old case with Mulder. Surely the aliens had taken all the hallucinogenic spores with them.

Biting her bottom lip, she decided to keep moving. If she was dreaming so be it. Her new motto of living in the moment was a good one, so if she was trapped in a dream it was going to be the best dream she'd ever had.

"Morning," she whispered as she entered the kitchen, running her fingers through her long, loose hair and heading to the cardboard crate of water someone had put on the bench. She remembered it was one of the boxes she had found at her mother's neighbour's house and smiled as she retrieved a fresh bottle. She removed the cap and took only a tiny sip before setting it on the bench beside her and turning to face her friends. They had all stopped talking as soon as she announced herself and it was unsettling. "What?" she asked, once she looked into their eyes and reassured herself they had not vanished as they would have had she really been hallucinating.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Monica asked. "You sleep okay?"

"Best sleep in a while," Scully admitted. "I'm okay. I'm just...processing."

"Skinner and Shannon were just taking Gibson and I through how much is in 'the raft'. I think it should be called 'the semitrailer' because they way they tell it, you've got enough food and water to get you to the Antarctic."

"Not quite," Scully laughed.

"But with all of us?" Monica pressed cautiously. "Although you and Mulder have a lot here too that we can probably take. I think we'll be okay. Hungry?"

"What's on the menu?" Scully asked cautiously. "Any fruit?"

"I got peaches," Sarah announced, staring in Scully's general direction with a welcoming smile. "You can share. You came down just in time Dana. Monica and I just convinced everyone to let us do something really thrilling today." Scully laughed when she saw Sarah grinning excitedly at her. Scully had no idea what could be 'that' exciting. She still thought the previous day had been pretty exciting.

"I couldn't help noticing that you have a rather large amount of shampoo in your bathroom," Monica added in a slow, coy tease, leaning back against the bench. "So, as a special treat, we are going to fill the laundry basin with water and wash our hair."

"No way," Scully whispered, her eyes widening at the prospect. Her hair had not been washed since before the invasion. It was disgusting, varying between extraordinarily greasy to drier than straw, and it was constantly filled with sand no matter how often she combed it. But she had never thought to expend her precious water to actually wash it. Not with shampoo. Even though she had washed her hair thousands of times, the prospect of doing so again seemed surreal. She had simply thought she never would.

"We wouldn't need that much water," Sarah assured her hurriedly, sensing her hesitation in her silence. "We would use the same water, but please, please say yes Dana. Monica and I both agreed we are dying, and did you know her husband John has kept shaving? And Gibson shaved this morning. So has Walter. A double standard, don't you think? We're the ones that have to take our pants off to squat in the sand. What do we get?"

"Sarah," Skinner laughed. "Shaving takes a tiny amount of water, not even half of those little bottles. We're talking about filling a laundry sink with at least five bottles. I know you can't see honey, but Dana's hair is down to her waist. It's a mane."

"We can fix that," Monica piped up with a grin. "Mine's grown a bit longer than I like anyway. Let's cut it, Scully. What do you say?"

"I-" Scully was struck dumb. She had just woken up, she had only seconds ago convinced herself she probably was living in the moment despite the sceptic inside her telling her 'reality' was too good to be true, and now Monica wanted to cut her hair? What the hell? She felt her fingers coming up to again trail through her hair. It was long, and it was becoming very thick, and she felt herself smiling at the thought of having shorter hair when Mulder came home. So she would look fresh. So she would look less like a crazy desert woman and more like the woman he had met in his basement office so many years ago. "Okay," she whispered. Sarah started clapping and Monica laughed at the display.

"Oh brother," Skinner sighed.

"I told you she'd cave," Gibson pointed out dryly. "But I think more importantly, Scully this morning you should first make sure Monica is okay." Monica rolled her eyes.

"I'm FINE."

"Hang on," Scully promised, stepping back from the bench and looking around, her hands on the brown cotton pants covering her hips. "Where's my pack?"

"In the living room still," Gibson answered. Scully smiled her thanks and disappeared around the corner. She returned a few minutes later with her first aid kit and a second, durable, 'environmentally friendly' bag of medical supplies which she had taken from a DC hospital before they had left. She put both on the bench but turned her attention to the very full green bag. She removed a stethoscope and slung it around her neck.

"Sit," she ordered Monica, pointing to the stool Gibson was sitting on. Gibson slid off immediately and Monica sighed but complied.

"Does everyone have to watch?" she asked pointedly.

"If you want me to trust you with my hair, then you can trust me not to embarrass you. I'm just going to take your blood pressure."

"Oh, well that's easy," Monica laughed. "I think I'd know if it was high."

"Not necessarily," Scully pointed out cautiously, retrieving the cuff. "I couldn't fit the mercury in the bag, so we're doing this the old fashioned way with the aneroid. Arm on the bench please." Monica let Scully wrap the cuff around her upper arm and inflate it as she both listened to her pulse through the stethoscope and looked at the dial. Monica watched her carefully once the pressure from the cuff dissipated, and Scully caught her eyes and smiled gently. "Nice and low," she promised. "You said last night you were taking supplements?"

"John cleared out a Nature's Own somewhere along the way," she laughed. "Iron, calcium, folate, blah, blah, blah."

"It's true," Gibson promised. "She takes like ten pills a day."

"Once I could keep them down," Monica added positively. "So it's low? Is that where it's supposed to be?" Scully nodded, stretching for the notepaper and pen still by her kitchen phone. She wrote down the result before she forgot it, and showed it to Monica silently, who relaxed. "Great," she agreed. "I kept telling them all I was fine."

"No more long walks," Scully ordered. "The fact you all took so long to get here is probably a good thing. And just one more thing." Before Monica could argue Scully put the stethoscope back in her ears and rested it over her stomach, looking at the second hand of the watch on her wrist and counting. "Okay, now I'm happy," she laughed when she caught Monica glaring pointedly at her. "You want to hear it?" she asked. Monica's expression fell in shock.

"W-w-what?" she asked. Scully stared at her blankly, her blue eyes wide. She removed the stethoscope from her ears and slung it naturally back around her neck.

"Do you want to hear the baby's heartbeat? It doesn't take a medical degree to listen through a stethoscope Monica. Here."

"Oh," Monica whispered, taking a deep breath. "Oh, okay."

"Can we all take turns after that?" Gibson asked. If anybody else had asked Scully might have thought they were making fun or being snide, but Gibson was smiling and the sight was so unfamiliar to Scully that she knew he was being genuine.

"If you ask Monica very, very nicely," she replied, handing the stethoscope to Monica and watching her put it into her ears. Scully directed the small circumference of metal to where she had found the strongest heartbeat and watched as Monica shut her eyes and listened. "You okay?" Scully asked after a few seconds. Monica nodded and opened her large, brown eyes to smile, removing the stethoscope from her ears.

"Here," she said. "You take this now before I start to cry." Scully grinned. "Thank you, I didn't even think to try that," she added. Scully simply shrugged. It was her job.

"I want you to tell me if you start feeling faint," she stated professionally. "It's common. You look like you're in your third trimester. I'd guess around seven months, but time out here isn't really relevant so we'll let nature take its course. Have you been getting hot?"

"It's the desert," Monica deadpanned. "I am always hot."

"Good point," she laughed. "All right then. I'm happy. Gibson, are you happy now?"

"Yes," he replied smugly. "John would kill me if anything happened to her."

"What else is in the bag?" Monica asked, hoping to divert some attention away from her. She had loved listening to her son's heartbeat, and she would listen again later, but in private and away from the others, where she was in a space and a frame of mind to really connect. She was pretty sure Scully wasn't 'actually' finished with the exam either. They would be heading up to the bedroom sometime that day for what Monica could only imagine was a much more thorough physical.

"In the bag," Scully repeated thoughtfully. "Ventalin, antibiotics, insulin, adrenaline, sedatives, bandages, scalpels, tourniquets, syringes, morphine, lots of surgical stitches and a few other serious medications I hope I don't have to use. In the box is everything standard to treat minor wounds, infections, headaches, etcetera."

"Where are your pills?" Skinner asked gently. Scully blushed.

"What pills?" Monica asked. Gibson opened his mouth to reply but shut it, reminding himself it wasn't his place. Besides, Scully was ready to talk. There wasn't any point not saying anything, she realised. Monica was the only one in the room who didn't know.

"Mulder and I had the means to end our lives in the bunker amongst the medical supplies we stored there," she whispered after a long pause. "I took the pills with me to DC. That's what I was going to use. They are still in my possession, but I can't tell any of you where they are. I hope you respect that."

"What do you mean you can't tell us?" Sarah asked, confused.

"They're a weapon," Scully answered seriously. "They are not the answer to depression and if, IF there comes a time when one of us is so seriously injured that a decision must be made, then it will be made by that person's closest relative or partner here, in conjunction with my advice and an examination of our situation, and I will be administering any and all medications necessary to end things. That's the long-shot scenario out of the way. On a more day-to-day basis, I'm happy to divvy out aspirin no questions asked, but I'm the doctor here. I know about the taking of ALL medication. If you're hurt it could impact on how I treat you in an emergency. Understood?"

"I don't see how that's fair when you're the one who took medication to use irresp-" Shannon stopped mid-sentence when Skinner turned to stare at her, pleading with her not to argue. "Okay," she sighed, conceding defeat quickly. "You're the doctor, after all."

"Look," Scully sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears and grimacing. "I want to clear this up-"

"That's not necessary Sc-"

"Dammit Gibson let me say it!" she huffed impatiently, glaring at him. He raised his hands in surrender and his eyebrows in surprise, silently telling her to continue. "Look," she repeated firmly, staring at her hands as they braced the edge of the bench. "I know you all know that a couple of months ago I had a breakdown. Skinner, it was not anxiety and you know it. But it was an episode, it was an isolated collapse of my ability to hold onto a piece of myself I needed to survive. I could not understand why I had been left behind. Well, now I know I wasn't left behind, and at the same time I know why I was." She lifted her eyes and looked at their faces, all focussed on her.

"However, the one part of myself I have never lost confidence in is my ability as a doctor. I happen to think I'm a pretty good one. You might not have signed consent forms but I consider myself to be your doctor and none of you get a say in that. I'm sorry, but that is how it is going to work. Does anybody have a problem with that?" They all shook their heads silently and Scully released the breath she had held, shaking her head. "I care about you all," she whispered. "I don't have anything to treat accidental overdoses or bad reactions to medications. And those pills are a certain death. I never... I'm taking a walk."

The screen door clattered loudly behind Scully as she hurriedly stalked away.

"Still a little sensitive I see," Shannon whispered gently as the kitchen fell into silence.

xxx

Sarah giggled at the sound of water hitting water as she and Monica held open bottles over the sink in the laundry an hour later.

"This is horribly wasteful you know," she teased. Monica laughed.

"I know, but once we wash our hair we can go up to Mulder and Scully's room and cut it. Do you want yours cut too?" Monica reached out and gently ran her fingers through Sarah's loose, blonde hair, which fell around her collarbones in grown-out layers. "You usually keep it shorter than this?"

"Usually. I don't know what it looks like now. Is it bad?"

"It's better than Dana's," Monica assured her with a gentle laugh. "We can even it off if you like; you'd have sort of a long bob. Not necessarily very straight, but it might look neater."

"I don't care if it's not straight. I already know how it's going to go when we get to other people," she explained. "Everyone will be like they always are and look at the tall, tan blonde girl and think she's really pretty and stupid, and then they'll realise I'm blind and not care that I'm smart and not care I was pretty once anyway. So an uneven trim I can deal with; it's not like I'll have to see it."

"Don't ever listen to what people tell you," Monica told her with a serious frown, her voice soft. "We won't let anyone act that way towards you, and maybe if Dana's hands aren't shaking we'll let Doctor Scully handle your hair with surgical precision."

"Where is she?" Sarah asked, concerned and biting her bottom lip.

"The laundry here is just by the back door, and last time I stuck my head around and looked out she was sitting in the sand about twenty metres away. I'll go and get her once this is full. Are you and she good friends?"

"I don't think you can call us friends," Sarah whispered. "Not like you and she are friends, I mean. I remember that night, at least I figured it was night since Walter and Shannon had been away so much longer than usual, and when they came back they had Dana with them. Walter was carrying her and she was unconscious. He sounded very scared. I managed to follow them upstairs and listened to them talking. They had already been stockpiling medical supplies. They stuck an IV in her hand-"

"They did not!" Monica gasped. Sarah nodded.

"Shannon did. She'd seen it done in the army and at the place where they made her into a supersoldier. But I think Uncle Walter was pretty nervous. His voice was how he sounded when he realised I couldn't see. Anyway, they were calling her by name like they knew her, but all I knew is that they had found another person who was alive. Walter didn't want to leave her and Shannon came and explained that somebody Walter used to work with had been found, that she was badly hurt but that she was a doctor and when she got better she could look at my eyes. Shannon's been lovely about this whole thing, you understand. She didn't mean to upset Dana just before. That's just how she talks."

"I know," Monica assured the younger woman. "So when did you first meet Dana?"

"Not until a week later. Shannon told me a couple of days later what had actually happened, because I kept asking if I could meet her and how she was doing. I don't think Dana left her room in the first week. Then suddenly one day she came to me and introduced herself and confirmed she was a doctor. She looked at my eyes and asked me a bunch of questions about my medical history as though nothing had happened to her. She said I was completely blind but she told me she did not understand how that could be, because she had seen the flash also, and she could see perfectly."

"Gibson told us it was stronger in the cities. And you were in DC, which if it really is destroyed must have been ground zero, or at least one of the centres of attack. If the light Dana saw was probably coming all the way from DC, it might have been weaker."

"She said even with her eyes closed it was like she could see everything in her room," Sarah whispered wistfully as though speaking a fairytale. Monica nodded sadly. "Dana is a very quiet person," she observed. "She is private. She has said almost nothing of Mulder, but we did not really speak properly until just before leaving to come south. I knew somebody who slit their wrists once so I wanted to give her space to heal. That sounds stupid but I think it worked. She has been extremely nice to me, and you have as well. You don't even know me and I can't see you; I don't usually spill my guts like this to strangers, but for some reason I just know I can trust you."

"You can. You can always trust the FBI," Monica assured her dryly. Sarah laughed. "I will go and get our friend," she added more gently, pulling up a stool and urging Sarah towards it. "You wait here. I won't be long." Sarah nodded patiently, listening as Monica's footsteps faded and the back door opened and closed.

Monica stood behind Scully in the sand and put her hands on her hips. Scully's head was bowed into her raised knees, and the hot breeze was blowing her orange hair around her back and shoulders. Skinner was right, Monica decided. It was a mane. It was so thick and long and Scully was so petite it obscured almost all of her when she was hunched over so tightly. Not for much longer, if Monica had her way.

"Are you going to make me sit down and then haul myself back up five minutes later?" she asked. "Because I'm not so good at that anymore." Scully said nothing and did not move, but Monica knew she had been heard. She also knew she was not sitting down. "Dana," she whispered kindly. "The sink's full. Come on. We're going to have a girl's day okay? We can wash our hair and cut it and paint our toenails and eat chocolate, anything to get out of this survivalist mindset just for a day. Sarah needs this just as much as you or I, and she is really looking forward to it. Skinner, Gibson and Shannon have walked into town. It's just us."

That got Scully's attention, and she raised her head and turned around, staring up at Monica from the ground. She was trying to hold a straight face but her lower lip was quivering and her eyes were wet, her cheeks streaked with remnants of earlier tears. Monica stretched her arm out so her hand was close to Scully's face.

"I know the fact Mulder's alive and coming home doesn't fix things," she whispered. "I know it probably makes it worse in some ways. I know you remember more about that night you cut your wrist than you let on to everyone else, and I know it had to do with Mulder. I know you're still uncomfortable with what you contemplated. I would be too."

"It's not that I think you all don't trust me," Scully finally spoke, standing with Monica's help and brushing her hands over her flushed cheeks. "I do. It's that maybe I don't fully trust myself yet. Can I tell you something?"

"Always," Monica assured her, watching Scully stare off into the distance to gather her thoughts and composure. When she turned back, she had a sad smile on her face as though she was about to reluctantly divulge a special secret. Monica took a step closer so the conversation seemed more private, and waited.

"The thing is," Scully whispered, raising her eyebrows as she spoke. Monica remembered the expression. Scully was about to say something that to her was almost a personal revelation, something she knew had happened but did not quite believe. Monica was intrigued. "That night," Scully continued. "I think everybody thinks that I missed the vein because deep down I didn't want to kill myself. I think everyone here thinks that I was strong enough to stop. The thing is, I don't think that I was. I don't think it was me."

"Who was it?" Monica asked curiously. Scully blinked hurriedly as another tear formed a lonely path down the centre of her cheek towards her jaw.

"I think it was Mulder," she hissed with disbelief. "You're right, I lied yesterday, and I've been lying to everyone for months. I 'do' remember. I remember everything. I didn't want to feel alone anymore so I asked for Mulder to come to me. I felt him hold me. I cut myself. It really, really hurt, which was strange because in my experience a lot of people describe it as more of a numbness, but I was screaming it hurt so much. I felt his arms around me, and I was scared so I asked him not to let me go. I cut myself deeper and then I heard this voice telling me to stop. It said, 'Don't do this sweetheart. Please stop', and it was Mulder's voice. I'd know it anywhere. I screamed that I hated him but I didn't mean it. I know he was not really there that night. I know it was all in my head. But when I close my eyes and go back to that place, he is there. In the memory he is there with me."

"I think he was there," Monica promised her wisely. "We would have been on the first half of the way here by then. There were some days when he said absolutely nothing, and there were nights he woke up screaming."

"He has really...bad nightmares," Scully explained with a deep sigh. "Because he sees it all so clearly, and he remembers them. He remembers everything. Sometimes they scare him so much. Did you and Sarah really fill the sink with water?"

"Five bottles and one bottle each for rinsing," Monica replied with a wide grin. "That's a whole eight bottles of water. It's nearly enough to go swimming in. But wait, before we go in-" She hesitated and Scully nodded, urging her to go on. "You said you think Mulder stopped you that night, which is wonderful and very special, but you do realise that doesn't mean you're not strong yourself, because I'm pretty sure that he hasn't been with you twenty-four-seven for the past couple of months all the times you've had ample opportunity to try again properly. You certainly always had the means. Just because you got a little help or spiritual guidance along the way, doesn't mean you're not strong."

"Did you say that to me yesterday?" Scully asked curiously, frowning at the sense of déjà vu. Monica chuckled, nodding.

"I think so. Has it sunk in yet?"

"It's getting there," Scully whispered, blushing. "I think I'll be okay when I see him."

"Do you want to go inside now?" Monica asked. Scully nodded definitely, crossing her arms over her chest. "And Dana," Monica added suddenly, resting her fingertips on Scully's shoulder. "I don't think anybody's told you this yet, but I am very sorry you saw your mom as one of those bodies. She was a really good person." Scully swallowed a sob of surprise and nodded. "Don't ever feel guilty that you're here and not with your family because, and I would never admit this to the others, but I truly am thankful you will be here, because I am a little bit nervous about being a mom 'here', and I missed you all these years, and it was hard being the only woman in the group. You have no idea."

"How many fights did you break up?" Scully asked, smiling as Monica wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her around to the house, urging them both to begin walking.

"I lost track on the second day," she replied, laughing when she saw Scully's smile widen. "Now the only question I have left is how short do you want to go?"

xxx 

"I don't know about this-"

"Ooh, too late!" Monica exclaimed, snipping off a large chunk of Scully's hair. She caught it in her fingers and held it up so Scully could see it in the reflection of the mirror in front of her. They had brought up a tall stool from the kitchen so that Scully could sit at mirror height. She found herself staring in shock at easily thirteen inches of damp, orange hair. Sitting on the closed toilet lid beside them, Sarah giggled.

"How much did you cut?"

"Only a little piece, Dana's such a little whinger," Monica teased. "Don't worry Scully; I know what I'm doing. I'm much less nervous doing this than I was when you were in labour all those years back."

"How reassuring," Scully muttered dryly as Monica grinned and squeezed her shoulders.

"So we're going to about here, we decided?" she confirmed, holding her hands level with Scully's shoulders. Scully nodded, and her eyes were wide and nervous. "When's the last time it was that short?"

"Not since Mulder was abducted."

"He's not going to recognise you," Sarah praised, wondering if Scully's hands had started trembling again. Monica had trimmed Sarah's hair instead of Scully, and quite well Sarah thought, considering how it felt. Both Scully and Monica had complimented her on the chin-length 'do'. It would curl a bit as it dried and Sarah was more than happy with Monica's efforts. She felt fresh again, and she had only had an inch or two taken off.

She could not imagine how Scully was going to feel, or how she was feeling sitting in the chair watching Monica cut more than half her hair away, but she had agreed after some persistent arguing on Monica's part that cutting their hair would be a healing experience for them all. In a way it was them cutting away what had grown since the invasion; it was symbolic of accepting the past but starting over. It was a girly thing to do, it was a good laugh, and most importantly they were all doing it together.

Scully had not even been able to argue.

Sarah already had received the impression that Monica was an open, free-spirited person, and hopefully she would be a positive influence on Scully. Sarah liked to be very open and friendly as well, her friends had always called her a hippie because of her more spiritual beliefs outside conventional religion, but it had been harder for her to reach out to Scully not being able to see her, knowing how vastly more experienced in the world she was, knowing that to Scully she was probably still just 'AD Skinner's niece'.

Scully had trimmed Monica's hair, but had been procrastinating about her own the whole time. Monica had humoured her until she could wait no longer. Sarah was just glad they hadn't had to hold her in the chair. She had never completely run her hands along Scully's hair in DC, and she had been surprised when she did to discover just how long and bulky it felt. No wonder Monica had suggested haircuts, she had realised. Plus, they had been singing old songs and eating chocolate all day without any interruptions. It was more fun than Sarah had experienced in many months, even prior to the invasion.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"It's going very well," Monica described. "But Dana has her eyes shut. I never knew you to be so attached to your hair Dana," she teased. "Or is it what the hair represents?"

"What does it represent?" Scully asked. She refused to open her eyes but her face and posture was relaxed and she sat very still, allowing Monica to concentrate.

"Why don't you tell me?" Monica retorted gently. "You've had long hair since Mulder was abducted and you were pregnant, and a lot's happened since then. What do you think will happen once it's all cut off?"

"I don't know," she whispered innocently. "It's not usually this wild you know. I get it thinned by the hairdresser when I get it cut. It just grows fast."

"It's still a pretty colour," Monica whispered, watching the long strands fall to the floor in patches. "Sort of a pity you couldn't donate all of this to one of those wig charities."

"How much longer?" Scully asked.

"I just started!" Monica huffed. "I want to get this as straight as I can so you look like a knockout when that sucker you call a boyfriend comes back."

"I can't believe you're not worried about them," Sarah mentioned casually.

"Mulder navigated us here all the way from Texas," Monica pointed out. "The only thing I'm worried about is that I haven't been around to break up any fights. Although I bet they come back all buddy-buddy. They have more in common than they think. There was no way Gibson or I could handle the trip, but regardless of that John was the right person to go. He understands grief so much better than the two of us."

"What are they both like?" Sarah asked.

"Mulder is quiet and incredibly smart," Scully answered, her eyes still shut. She felt lighter and she knew a lot of her hair was gone. Monica was working patiently behind her, letting her answer first. "He's very friendly though. And funny. He trained as a psychologist and used to work as a profiler for the FBI before starting work in the basement. I never liked him profiling. It was too intense and he is too intense himself to really handle it. It always scared me much more than anything we did on the X Files. Um, he remembers absolutely everything and he was very good friends with Walter, who saved us more times than I can count. He likes...R&B, crazy old zombie movies, spooky stories, basketball and baseball, and he is obsessed with sunflower seeds."

"Still?" Monica whined. Scully nodded briefly so as not to interrupt the careful snipping.

"He sounds cool," Sarah laughed. "Spooky!"

"He hasn't been popping sunflower seeds with you?" Scully asked suddenly, curious as to why Monica had responded to her final comment. He was never without them. Scully would have expected him to have picked them up at a shop along the way.

"Not even once," she replied softly, frowning in concentration at the back of Scully's hair, slowly edging her way around to the right side.

"And John?" Sarah pressed. "Is he just like Mulder?"

"Uh, no," Monica grinned. "John was in the NYPD and the Army before joining the FBI. That's how he knows Shannon. They were in the same company. He is what you might call 'straight laced'. He does NOT like R&B, he prefers the older stuff, Sinatra, classical, or in his words, music you can 'really' dance to. He likes his NASCAR and football, and he's got the most beautiful blue eyes. You can see right into his soul sometimes. We met when I was working for the FBI while he was still in the NYPD. His son was kidnapped and the FBI was called in to assist. We found Luke murdered not long afterwards. It ended John's first marriage. We always kept in touch but only by the odd phone call, and I didn't see him again until he called about five years ago asking me to come and help find Agent Mulder, who had been abducted by aliens, if you can believe that."

"So you weren't much help finding him at all then," Sarah quipped. Monica and Scully both laughed.

"No," Monica agreed. "Mulder has an inexplicable knack of finding his own way home from the ODDEST places."

"I'm really glad he was with you," Scully mumbled after a long period of thoughtful silence on all their behalves. "I'm sure he appreciated your compassion."

"They're giant teddy bears, I understand," Monica teased. "I've missed them actually."

"The anticipation is killing me you know," Sarah huffed.

"They'll be here any day," Monica promised.

"Not that!" she whinged. "Are you nearly done? I want to touch what's left of her hair!"

"Yeah, can I open my eyes yet?" Scully asked impatiently.

"Nearly," Monica sung. The bathroom became silent but for the slow snipping of the sharp scissors in Monica's hand. Twenty long minutes later, she put the scissors down and ran her fingers through Scully's hair, fluffing it in its semi-dry state to see how it looked less rigid. She grinned. "How does it feel?" she asked. "It looks amazing, Dana."

"Airy," Scully mumbled suspiciously. "And you would say that." She opened her eyes and they widened in surprise. Monica had cut her hair to the base of her neck. It did not even reach her collarbone, a good two inches above their 'agreed' length, but Monica was right, Scully realised with a growing smile. It looked amazing. "Wow," she whispered, staring at herself. She had forgotten what she looked like with shorter hair. It was thick enough again to look textured even, but still long enough to tie back. It lifted her face.

"I think by the sounds of this stunned silence you've found yourself a new career," Sarah told Monica as she stood and walked cautiously forward, hand outstretched. The floor was covered in their hair and slippery, so Monica took her hand quickly. She brought Sarah's fingers to Scully's hair, and Sarah laughed when she realised she could run her fingers along the back of Scully's neck. "What is that, fifteen inches gone?"

"Pretty much," Monica agreed. "So, Dana, what do you think? Was that a good 'wow' or a, 'I am going to kill you Monica' wow?"

"It's a, 'I can't believe that's me' wow," Scully whispered seriously, reaching up to brush her fingers over her eyes before she cried. "I think I love it." Monica beamed proudly.

xxx 

Monica was leaning against the open front door as the sun set that evening when she saw Shannon, Skinner and Gibson return bearing more gifts. Shannon was dragging a pile of mattresses resting on top of a wooden slat which had ropes tied around it to assist her in tugging. Skinner's arms were loaded up with short, thick, wooden beams, and Gibson was carrying so many pillows and sheets he could barely see over the top.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked once they stopped in front of her.

"We needed more beds," Shannon explained. "There's a dismantled double we think we can get into one of the rooms upstairs for you and John. There are also two other mattresses; a single to replace the bad mattress in the spare room, and a king single for Walter which can go on the floor somewhere. Two people will have to share the current spare room now; Gibson and Sarah, if she's got no objections. Where is she?"

"Sarah and Dana are both asleep," Monica answered, her voice soft. "I think we had too much fun, we're all exhausted, but I thought I would wait for you."

"There's another single not far from here so tomorrow we can replace the air mattress and get Sarah something more comfortable to sleep on. There's also another frame for this king single so soon nobody will have to sleep on the floor, far as we can tell."

"Wow," Monica mumbled. It was the same sort of 'wow' Scully had whispered hours earlier. Complete shock. "Thank you Shannon," she added. "That's really thoughtful. We really appreciate the effort to bring all this here." Shannon shrugged casually but smiled.

"No worries. It's going to get pretty crowded here soon." Monica grinned. Yes, she thought happily. It sure was.


	14. Chapter 14

Thirteen

John laughed suddenly when he looked at Mulder as they walked through the sand. They were both weighed down by large backpacks. Mulder's was his own, purple and black, but John's was brand new and khaki. Both were stuffed full and incredibly hot and heavy, but that was not why John had been laughing, and Mulder hid his smile to playfully glare.

"What?"

"Is that a monkey on your back or are you just happy to see me?" John asked, bursting into more uninhibited laughter before the question was complete. Mulder laughed, tugging on the thick, soft arms and legs of the stuffed, orange-brown orang-utan perched on his shoulders. The fake fur of the toy was long and soft but the face was quite hideously comical, and the orang-utan was smiling widely, showing a row of straight, white teeth. Its head was bouncing against Mulder's baseball cap in time with his steps.

Mulder watched John reach back to the side pocket of his backpack and unzip one of the compartments while also pushing his dark sunglasses further up his nose. Mulder could not see what he was reaching for but he had a pretty good idea, and John made sure he blocked Mulder's view until the object had been removed and the zip done back up.

"Ahah!" he exclaimed, thrusting the stuffed baby orang-utan toy in Mulder's face. Mulder cracked up. He couldn't help it. It was the most hilarious baby monkey toy he had ever seen and as soon as he had seen the mother-baby combination in the toy store he just had to steal it. It was a reminder of human evolution, after all, he had pointed out to John, doing his best to sound just like Scully. They owed it to what was left of civilisation to pass on the history of mankind to John's son.

'And this grinning baby monkey who looks possessed is the way to do that,' John had deadpanned. Mulder had already picked up the mother and slung it over his shoulders.

'Just tell him Spooky Uncle Mulder thought it would be educational, and if it gives him nightmares, just send him to me and I'll tell him some stories that will make possessed monkey nightmares the least of his worries.'

"Do you think Monica will let us keep it?" Mulder asked excitedly. John smirked.

"She made me spend the last three weeks with you. We're keeping it. Although I might hide the baby from her, then one morning sneak out of bed and tuck it in beside her and wait for the scream when she wakes up and looks over."

"That's gold," Mulder agreed. "You know I think we're only half a day's walk away. We should get there by dark."

"Awesome," John replied, grinning widely. "I wonder how they are."

"Probably bored out of their minds," Mulder chuckled. "Monica's probably getting really big too. I bet Gibson's stressing. But I reckon we brought enough crap back with us to make things really comfortable."

"Mon is going to be stoked we found better clothes for her," John agreed. "Oh, and those baby carry hammock things."

"Very cool," Mulder agreed. The last few days in DC had been spent trawling department stores for anything they could take back with them, and most of what they had brought back was for the baby. Mulder didn't mind; he did not need anything much and neither did Gibson. A few new changes of clothes and they were set, so he had been happy to walk around with John in the baby shops and maternity section of the women's department and muddle their way through various thefts.

He was glad nobody else had been around to watch them, because it had taken them an hour to figure out how the carry-slings worked. Shopping for toys and baby clothes had been more to Mulder's liking. By the end of the day they had both been overwhelmed with cuteness and had treated themselves to a warm beer and pizza flavoured chips in an effort to get back in touch with their masculinity. Mulder grinned at the memory.

He was glad they had been able to make something positive out of a trip which at the start had held so much real disappointment. Mulder was certain beyond any doubt that Scully was alive, but without any more clues as to where she might have gone he had no chance of finding her. He had even climbed onto a high dune just behind the city ruins and shouted her name, but there had been no response. He had only done that once. It was eerie to speak into such a silence, and Mulder had not wanted to keep calling for her. If he let himself start, he was not sure he could have stopped.

All he wanted to do was to keep calling for her. It was all he had ever wanted. But to know that she would never call back like she had on so many other occasions over their lives, to know that his voice would be met by only the wind and the shifting of sand, was distressing. Mulder was still distressed. He was genuinely excited about going back to Monica and Gibson, and he was certainly happier than he had been when he left, but nothing could take away the knowledge that at the very top of his backpack was Scully's diary. He had already memorised every page.

The part of Mulder that had always been so critical of everything he had done in his life told him he was being pathetic. Mulder had been surprised to hear that voice again because he had not heard it in a long time, and one day he realised he had not heard it since he and Scully had settled in Virginia. She had always told him in her own way that the self-critical part of his mind was an idiot, and that he was normal, and human, and that she believed in him. Having accepted that, Mulder had been less critical of himself.

Until he had left her and the world had ended, and then the voice had come back with a vengeance. It had been his fault, he had left her; he had driven her to allow him to leave. That had gradually merged into a criticism of his grief for her. 'Don't cry, you baby', it often said. 'What are you, a child? Don't cry. Only little girls cry. Are you a little girl? Are you?' Sometimes Mulder heard his father's voice saying those things to him, as he had in angry moments after Samantha's disappearance, but other times the voice was his own, angry at the world for taking the last of his family from him.

And that thought was what allowed him to tell the overly critical voice to fuck off, he reminded himself firmly. Scully was his family. She was his wife without the ring or the signature. They had been committed to each other for years, long before they ever even kissed. There had not been anyone else. She was his partner, and had been for longer than most people stayed married. She was his wife, dammit, and if he ever found her, he was going to steal that diamond ring she had always told him she didn't need.

So the voice could go fuck itself, he reasoned. His best friend was alone and hurt somewhere and he had not been able to find her or help her. If that meant he cried like a little girl before he went to sleep or that he woke up some nights calling out her name from a nightmare in which he searched and searched and never found her, then so be it. Scully would have told him he was just as entitled to his grief as any other human being, and that was what he was currently holding onto. Because she also would have said that he was just as entitled to find other things in his life to be happy about.

Like possessed baby monkey toys that really, in his opinion, were very cute. He could memorise the pages of her journal and cry, and he could be there for Monica and John. He could do it both, each in its own time, because he was entitled. Scully said so.

"What are we gonna say?" John asked suddenly, looking over at Mulder, who was pouting as though he was focussing very hard on something in his mind. "Mulder?"

"What?" Mulder asked. "What are we gonna say about what?"

"To Monica, about what we found at Scully's mother's house."

"We'll just tell her exactly what we saw," Mulder sighed, shaking his head as the sight of Maggie Scully's blood and wine stained living room flashed in his mind. He saw it spread out like a crime scene. "Gibson will know anyway. We'll just have to tell her. I don't think she'll be too upset. I hope not. Wherever she is, she did survive."

"Yeah but I don't think Monica thought Dana would really do something like that to herself. It might shake her."

"You think she'll be disappointed?" Mulder asked.

"Not in Dana, but maybe in that she shouldn't have made you go."

"I'm glad I went," Mulder assured John. "I needed to try. If nothing else, I know that Scully believed we would be together in our next life, and I have to believe that too. That's enough to...keep me going. I just hope in the next life we can do it properly somehow, if not in this world then in another. So much of this life's been all screwed up."

"You uh, think you knew each other in a past life?" John asked. He did not believe in reincarnation, Mulder knew that, which was perhaps why he had waited so long before bringing up this particular little wish. But John was tolerant and he had time for Mulder's opinions. After all, Mulder's beliefs were not so different from Monica's, and John knew there were truths in those beliefs; not in the reality of those beliefs but in the human desires they represented.

"I know we did," Mulder whispered seriously. "But what I can't figure out is if this is the end cycle now, or if we would end up as aliens in the next life or something like that."

"You know what would be funny?" John asked. Mulder smirked. "If that were true, and all these aliens started having flashbacks to their past lives as humans. It would really freak those murderous suckers out. Daddy killed me in a past life!" Mulder laughed.

"Yeah well," he sighed. "Shit happens."

"Mulder," John continued, glancing at the suddenly deflated figure walking slowly beside him. "I really hope that comes true for the two of you. You and Dana deserve to be able to do it 'properly', as you put it, and hey, I'm getting a second go at it right now. It's not very fair when you consider the two of you were robbed of even the first go."

"We made a pretty good life," Mulder defended gently, though he was heartened by John's words of support. "It was simple, in the end, and while it was missing some things, it was real. I shouldn't have let it frustrate me so much. She probably thought I was bored of her. I was only ever really bored of myself."

"Do you want to stop for a break?" John asked. Mulder shook his head. He sighed, and then allowed himself so smile. He let Scully's voice silence the guilt for the time being and focussed on home, and how close they were.

Mulder knew John was really asking if they could press on and get there as soon as possible. He had missed Monica, and all the talk about Scully had surely made him miss her even more. At least some good would come out of the mess he was in, Mulder realised. If John ever got frustrated and thought about walking out, he would remember Mulder and this time in the desert, and he would surely reconsider, saving potentially much more than just a few hours of wasted time. Mulder certainly would never make the same mistake again.

And if he never saw sand in the next life, he would be a very happy alien.

"Narr," he assured his friend. "Let's press on. We've been gone a few weeks and they'll be waiting." John nodded in agreement. He certainly hoped that they were.

xxx 

Scully took a deep breath as she looked out her bedroom window. She resisted the urge to run nervous fingers through her shorter hair. She resisted the urge to fiddle with the clothes Monica had helped her pick out. It was not anything fancy, but it was more than she had gotten used to. The room around her smelt of talc, perfume and keen anticipation.

Monica pushed herself off the bed and came to join her at the window. Scully knew Monica had done what she could to look nice also, and she had missed John; she deserved to be able to do that. They would certainly smell a lot better than their partners, she thought with a soft smile.

"Well what do you know," Monica whispered, tapping the glass when she saw two distant figures in the sand. "Do you know what you'll say yet?"

"No," Scully whispered, her voice shaking. She was suddenly frightened. What if he had dealt with his loss and moved on, as she so very nearly had? Or had she? Had she just been telling herself she had moved on, when really she could never have moved on? Could she hope for him to be the same, or would he push her away, dismissing her as a figment of his imagination, some sort of heat-induced illusion? "What if-" Her worries never made it past her lips because she suddenly realised how irrational it all sounded. She sighed, crossing her arms and watching the two faraway men make their way slowly closer. The house had been tipped off by Gibson. They'd had a lot of time to prepare.

She still hadn't come to terms with the fact he was suddenly right in front of her. Visible.

Tangible.

"You look beautiful," Monica assured her gently. "Don't even question how he feels." Scully nodded, silently thanking her friend for understanding without her having to speak. "I'm going to go out halfway and meet them," she continued. "You can come out too or wait here. Either way, I won't say anything. Take your time."

"I don't want to just run into his arms," Scully whispered. "That's not who I am."

"Then don't," Monica replied simply. "Don't run. Just walk right up to him with your head held high, stick your hand out and introduce yourself or something. Just make sure you look him in the eye. He won't believe it if you don't." Scully nodded, taking on board all of Monica's very sensible advice. There were a hundred ways meeting Mulder again could happen, but no matter how many scenarios Scully ran through in her mind, she could never really see herself there. She did not know where she fit. She did not know what she wanted the moment to be. "Good luck," Monica added, squeezing Scully's shoulders before leaving.

Skinner, Shannon, Gibson and Sarah were all sitting around on the veranda, waiting for the show to start. They turned and stared up at her from their seats on the wooden deck as Monica stopped in the door.

"Have they seen us yet?" she asked Gibson.

"The house, yes, the raft, yes. Us? No."

"How's Dana?" Skinner asked. "She still upstairs?" Monica nodded.

"She's watching. She's scared, but she'll be okay once it's happening."

"They've got binoculars," Gibson announced suddenly. "You've been spotted, Monica."

"Great," she declared with a laugh. "I guess that's my cue to waddle on out there and try to stall them a bit until Dana gets her courage up. Make sure she follows me."

"She will," Gibson promised. "She's waiting for you to get there first."

xxx 

"She's talking to someone," Mulder described as he pocketed the binoculars and looked at John, who was too nervous to have taken a peek himself. "Reckon Gibson's sitting on the porch. She was just standing in the door, but I think she looked out at us so I bet you anything the little tattle-tale told her we were spyin'."

"I've been trying to come up with a practical joke we could play on him just for laughs," John admitted. "But I can't. I mean he really deserves it sometimes, but he'd never let us catch him!" Mulder chuckled. "So Mon looks good?"

"You can ask her yourself soon I reckon," he replied, pointing into the distance as he saw the figure he knew to be Monica slowly walking towards them.

xxx 

Monica laughed loudly when she realised there was a monkey wrapped around Mulder's head and shoulders. She stopped walking and waited, hands on her hips, for them to come to her. They both jogged the final few metres excitedly, and she stared pointedly at John's backpack.

"So your bag grew," she mentioned. "And Mulder got a monkey. Wow, successful trip."

"Shut up," John teased, quickly dropping the bag and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. Monica grinned as she hugged him tightly. She whispered that she had missed him in his ear, and then she pulled back and kissed him, feeling his hands come to rest on the unavoidable bulge between them. "How are you?" John asked seriously once they parted. She beamed, nodding.

"Great. Fantastic," she promised. "Gibson's been spoiling me, really." John suddenly cocked his head to the side and reached for her hair. He could have sworn it had been longer than her shoulders when he left.

"Did you cut your own hair?" he asked.

"Sort of," she teased, turning to Mulder. "Now does that monkey have a name?"

"Nope," Mulder grinned, removing it from his shoulders and handing it to her. "I thought it could be a good pet for the baby." Monica laughed but accepted the gift. "Wait, it gets better," Mulder assured her, dropping his own backpack and then going to John's. He leant over to unzip the side pocket and counted to three. John joined him.

"Ahah!" they both shouted on three, Mulder holding the baby monkey out to her. Monica cackled, swiping the poor toy from them.

"Oh it's cute!" she exclaimed, looking at the bright brown plastic eyes and wide grin. She touched the sparse, orange hair covering its mostly bald head. "And so lifelike. So I'm carrying the orang-utans back to the house am I?" she teased. "What else is in that bag, John? You didn't fill up on silly string while you were away, did you?"

"No, just a bunch of baby stuff," John assured her. "Oh and we found you clothes. Hopefully they fit." Monica's eyes filled with unexpected tears.

"You found me clothes?" she asked in a whisper. Mulder and John both nodded proudly.

"We didn't find Dana though," John added in a suddenly serious whisper. Monica nodded. She hadn't even bothered to ask. "But we do think she is still alive."

"I'm sure she is," Monica nodded, brushing tears from her eyes. "I missed you both so much," she added, turning to Mulder and hugging him since he was without his backpack. The stuffed toys still in one of her arms were crushed between them. Mulder held onto her tightly and Monica allowed herself to squeeze him back. The man had been without real love for so much of his life, she knew. He had always hugged her so fiercely. She kissed his cheek above his beard as they pulled away. "I'm sorry you didn't find her," she told him sincerely, stroking his hairy jaw. "And as much as I love the beard," she teased in a whisper. "I think we've got something to take care of that inside."

"Oh come on," Mulder growled. "Stop trying to convince me to get rid of it Mon. John stopped asking months ago. What's it gonna take?"

"I can think of a few things," she teased coyly, barely swallowing her laugh. "Gibson and I have organised a little surprise for you."

"Is it that bloody great box that's appeared outside the house?" John asked curiously when she returned to his side and took his hand. "What the hell is it? We were kind of worried when we saw it. How'd you get it here? What IS it?"

"It's been named 'the raft'," she explained seriously, looking between them. "And it was brought here all thanks to Gibson." She saw John's eyes look over her shoulder and lose focus and she quickly turned around to confirm who he thought he had seen. She then quickly reached out and laid her palm over the sweaty shirt on Mulder's chest, feeling his heart beating firmly beneath her fingers. "Oh and Mulder," she added softly, gesturing for him to follow John's gaze, for he hadn't yet. "You're not the only one who came home."

Mulder thought his heart must have stopped in the moment when Monica removed her hand and he followed the nod of her head to where another woman was walking towards them. She was short, he catalogued as he removed his cap and let it fall to the sand at his feet. Her fair hair looked golden under the afternoon sun but different to the colour of the sand. It was more textured. He knew up close it would not be blonde. It was cut to above her shoulders, and was blowing around her face, light enough to be lifted and tossed by the gentlest of breezes.

She was wearing white, three-quarter pants he only ever remembered her wearing once when they had spent a week at the coast one summer. They had walked barefoot along the beach together with those pants, he remembered. Her skin was white, not tanned or sunburned, and the light blue satin, strappy top was clinging to her waist and breasts. Mulder thought he saw a second strap under the thin blue, something dark, and he realised she was wearing a bra. It struck him as completely surreal, for Monica had given up on those months earlier.

She was looking right at him, he realised, but she was not yet close enough for him to see her expression. He let himself take a step forward in an effort to keep watching her, to see more, at least before she vanished completely. He knew he was dehydrated, but the mirage in front of him seemed just that little bit too cruel. She was barefoot, her fingernails were dark, painted, and she kept crossing and uncrossing her arms as she walked. Mulder wanted to call out to her, but he could not speak. His tongue and throat felt swollen and dry. He was thirsty, for water and for her. He wanted to call but he couldn't. He did not think she would call back.

xxx 

Scully tried to stay strong and not cross her arms as she approached him, but it was hard. Monica had turned and seen her, John had seen her, and then Mulder had seen her. Scully had been far away but she had recognised the way he had frozen, and she had felt his eyes on her, just as she had felt his arms around her in her mother's house. Fear began to course through her, making her heart hammer and her breathing quicken. Was it only fear she felt, she wondered? Or was it desire?

He was still tall, and she fought down the smile when she realised he had grown his beard. He would need a haircut as well, she realised, staring at his thick, brown hair. He looked tan in the distance, and he was wearing a white shirt, sunglasses and long, loose brown slacks. It all looked relatively new, she realised. They had been shopping in DC.

Mulder took a tiny step towards her and at the first sign of movement Scully's heart felt like it dropped lower in her chest, sinking down to the place where she had safely stored him inside her, reaching for it, reaching for him. She promised herself there would not be pain this time, and tears stung her eyes as she quickened her steps. He looked like he was hesitating, and Scully knew it was because he did not yet believe.

So she stopped, and she waited for him to come to her.

xxx

Mulder's mouth opened when he saw her stop in the sand and put her hands on her hips. She tilted her head to the side, and he immediately grinned. How far apart were they, he wondered? Fifty metres? Thirty? It seemed like she was going to make him walk. As though he hadn't just scoured the country looking for her? God, he realised suddenly, his gut clenching. Looking for her. Her.

'You're not the only one who came home,' Monica had said. Monica had held him. Monica had been real. But Scully, if it was really Scully, did not look real. She looked clean, she looked healthy, and she looked ready for him to drag his ass home and grovel like he should have so many months previously. Well, Mulder had no real problem with that if it was real. There was only one person in the world he would ever beg, and it was her, and she hated to hear him beg. So maybe he would not grovel for forgiveness. Maybe he would just drag his ass home.

He turned around and began to pick up his bag, completely ignoring Monica and John, who were still just standing there watching. Monica was grinning wildly but John looked as stupefied as Mulder felt. He went to lift the bag but Monica stopped him with a hand on his head. She forced him to look her in the eye before she spoke.

"Leave it," she assured him. "Someone will bring it in." Mulder let the heavy pack drop back onto the sand and stood up to his full height, staring at Monica with confusion and hope and the faintest hint of a very large grin waiting just beneath his indecision. "Bet you wish you shaved now," she teased dryly. Mulder reached up to touch his jaw, and then he looked back to the woman standing in the sand.

She had not moved, but her hands had fallen from her hips. He could picture her standing there nervously, wondering about his hesitation and what it meant. He realised that if she was real he was probably scaring her. He could not do that to her again, surely. He had to force himself to take more than just one step. He had to go to her. But what if she disappeared, or transformed into somebody else right in front of him?

"JESUS MULDER!" Scully called suddenly. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?"

Your voice, he answered silently, releasing the grin he had held and taking a more confident step forward. He removed his sunglasses and pocketed them. Scully lifted her arms to her sides in frustration and let her hands fall dramatically back against her hips.

"Your voice!" he called back on impulse. She took a small step forward and laughed.

She laughed. He heard it. He saw it. He was close enough now to see her smile.

"What?" she asked. Mulder did not answer until he was just a few metres from her. He could feel her pull on him. He could see the freckles on her white face and chest. He could see the black bra strap beneath the blue top. He could see the sunset orange of her hair and the ocean blue of her eyes. He could smell her perfume and her sweat. He could feel her heart beating without touching her. He could feel her reaching for him without moving her arms from her sides. It was all happening through their eyes, just like it always had, and he allowed himself to get lost in the teary blue irises that were staring at him as though she had only just realised he was really real, too.

"I was waiting to hear your voice," he repeated, his voice low and cracking. "Tell me something. Anything." Scully smiled, and Mulder's insides melted when he saw her bottom lip tremble. A tear far ahead of the rest trickled down her cheek, but she opened her mouth and spoke to him, ignoring the other tears as they joined their leader.

"Psalm 27," she whispered, her voice shaking and loud enough for only him to hear. "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? Of whom shall I be afraid? Though a host encamp against me-"

"My heart shall not fear," Mulder mumbled, taking over from her as she froze in surprise. Mulder had never recited scripture aloud in his in life. "Though war rise against me," he continued more confidently. "I will be confident."

He paused, waiting to see what she would do or say, whether she would continue. When she appeared rendered speechless by her tears, or perhaps the fact he was reciting the Bible, he took a step closer and continued, speaking straight into her eyes, feeling his lips move with the words he had memorised but not consciously recalling them. How could he, when he was so preoccupied with staring into her heart?

"For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble," he whispered, watching her lips move as she joined him, hearing their voices blend intimately. "He will conceal me; he will set me high upon a rock. I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait, be strong, and let your heart take courage." Mulder hesitated once they were done, but he took another step forward as Scully brushed the tears from her cheeks. Mulder ignored his. They could be brushed away later. "I'm going to hug you now," he threatened emotionally. "And I warn you, I'm not sure if I'll be able to let go."

"I'm not sure I want you to," Scully replied, allowing herself to smirk. "Depends how bad you smell." Mulder grinned, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms low around her waist and hips. Scully stood on her tiptoes to reach her arms around his neck, and he had picked her up off the ground before they were even chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his hips as she pressed their torsos together, their hearts beating rapidly. "Sit," Scully whispered as her lips began pressing into the skin at the base of his neck. He could feel her breathing heavily against him but he realised the strained breath he could hear was his, and as he sank to the sand with her still in his arms he released the sob that had formed without his knowledge somewhere deep inside of him.

Scully only held him tighter as he broke in that moment, crying into her shoulder, his tears hot and wet on her bare skin. She pushed the straps on her shoulder away so she could feel all of him there and she held onto him, straddling him, as they rocked for comfort and completion. Scully had barely any tears left, and let the final few trickle silently down her cheeks as she kept her eyes shut and focussed on the feel of him beneath her and around her.

He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the fair skin of her shoulder and neck and then down towards her breast. His hands came up to clutch at her hair and he used the leverage to lift his head. Her eyes were closed, he realised, and she was panting gently, her face flushed. Not giving her any warning and perhaps not needing to, he leant his head forward and touched his lips to hers, hesitantly at first, but Scully wasted no time in slanting her lips across his and pulling his head closer, kissing him deeply.

Mulder was drowning again, but it was a much nicer sensation than the drowning he had experienced in the basement with Gibson, Monica and John. Nice was of course a major understatement, but he was having trouble thinking of words longer than a syllable. Blindly, he searched for her left hand somewhere behind his head. It was much harder to coordinate right and left when Scully's tongue was hotly lapping at his but he found it eventually. He reached for her hips with his other hand, and as his thumb found the raised scar he pulled her all the way onto his lap, locking her hips with his and brushing his fingers over the sensitive skin of her wrist. Scully broke the kiss out of surprise and whimpered as he brought her left arm between them, staring at the scar as he fingered it.

"Do you hate it?" she asked, breathless. She wanted to tell him how he had saved her that night, how he had begged her to stop, but later, she determined. She would tell him later.

"How could I hate it?" he asked her, his brown eyes searching hers for understanding as they sat together, their postures relaxed and their bodies finally comfortable side by side. "How could I ever hate anything so beautiful?" He reached for her chin and drew her face back to his for a slower, more tender kiss than the passion they had just exchanged. "I love you," he whispered. "We're going to make it out of here, together Dana." Scully nodded. She tilted her head downwards, parting their lips but joining their foreheads, allowing them both to catch their breaths.

"I love you Fox," she whispered, grazing her nose past his. He sighed, inhaling the sound of his name and letting it wash through him and cleanse him, breaking apart the grease of pain and regret that had camped inside him with the strength of industrial solvent. "Fox," she repeated, shifting on his lap and running her fingers through his hair. She knew how he felt about the use of his name. He knew she was using it deliberately to soothe, to give affection, to clear him of any lingering guilt. "Fox I love you," she almost wept. He felt her pain. He felt everything as their faces continued to nuzzle intimately.

"Fox 'loves' this look," he told her, panting and wrapping his fingers around her shorter hair. "Your hair could be down to your toes and I wouldn't care but this, looks...amazing. You smell...like water, and shampoo, and perfume, and it's beautiful, you're beautiful."

"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his shoulders and pecking his lips. "Does that mean I can cut your hair now?" she asked. He nodded definitely, parting their foreheads and dragging rough fingers softly over her reddened jaw. He chuckled.

"I scratched you, I'm sorry," he teased. Scully grinned, shaking her head.

"It was worth it," she shot back. "So would you like to go in and meet the others?"

"The others?" Mulder asked hesitantly. "You came with people?"

"Yes sweetheart, I did," she replied, giggling. Mulder grinned at the sound, again letting his fingers tangle in her hair either side of her head. Suddenly Scully saw his eyes glaze and she frowned in concern, slipping back on his lap to give him more space in case he was about to hyperventilate. She held his face in sure hands and stared into his eyes.

"You need water," she declared. He nodded, suddenly too exhausted to argue, and Scully stood, pulling him with her. She looked around and realised with frustration that John, Monica and Mulder's bag had all disappeared from close proximity. She turned back to the house but she could see Skinner already preparing to run a bottle out to them.

Thank you Gibson, she told him silently.

"Thanks," Scully whispered once Skinner reached her. She rubbed Mulder's back as Skinner handed him the plastic bottle.

"Sent him into shock hey?" Skinner chuckled, clicking his fingers in front of Mulder's eyes until he refocussed. "Or was he just deprived of oxygen too long. Hey, Mulder, remember me? Walter Skinner." Mulder's mouth dropped open in recognition as he stared at his old boss. "Boy, are you lucky Dana forgives you huh? Drink." Given permission, Mulder emptied half the bottle without even thinking about rations. Skinner was not annoyed. John had been just as thirsty and Monica had taken him inside into the shade for some food. "You two been walking all day or something?"

"We really wanted to get back before dark," Mulder mumbled, replacing the cap on the bottle and handing it back to Skinner. "We didn't take any breaks."

"Oh brother," Skinner groaned. "Every time I run into you lot you're doing something stupid, aren't you? Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Mulder huffed, put out by Skinner's teasing attitude. The man was smiling at him, but still. "I could go and do stupid things elsewhere, if you'd prefer," he shot back. Skinner laughed, shaking his head. He reached forward and pulled Mulder into an uncharacteristic hug which Mulder returned, forcing his remaining tears to retreat.

"I don't think Dana's letting you out of her sight for a long time," Skinner informed him, pulling away. "You're stuck with all of us now. See you inside." He handed Scully what was left of the water and turned around, walking back to the house to give them privacy.

"I really am okay," Mulder promised her, running his fingers tenderly around the outside of her face. "I'm sorry I'm late home, Dana."

"Once you've had some food and a bit of a nap you can make it up to me," she replied sincerely, scratching her fingers tenderly through his beard. "When you're up for it I want to talk to you about the journal and what you saw at mom's house. You did go there, didn't you? You knew about my wrist."

"I went there," he told her seriously. "I'm sorry about your mom." Scully nodded. "You can talk to me about anything. I wrote you a diary too, but it's up here," he continued, tapping his head. "I want you to know it too. And there's something I want to ask."

"What's that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She wrapped her arms comfortably around his waist and stared up at him. Without shoes on she always felt so small against him, and he smiled down at her with tears shining in his eyes.

"Baby orang-utans: freaky or cute?" Scully's smile faded into an expression he had missed dearly. Her eyes said, 'does he seriously expect me to answer that?' but her smile told him she was happy he was making a joke. She gripped his waist securely.

"What sort of question is that?" she exclaimed. Mulder shrugged, grinning at her innocently. He still expected her to answer. She made a dramatic show of considering her reply, leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around her back. Mulder slipped one palm under her shirt by her waist and the other stroked the bare skin from her neck to the top edge of her shirt, making her shiver. He could not get over the fact she had cut her hair. Mulder hoped Gibson knew he was going to need to do some major switching off.

"GET A ROOM ALREADY!" Gibson shouted from across the sand and Mulder laughed. Scully smirked at him suspiciously. She had been thinking about orang-utans. She could only imagine what Mulder had been thinking, the way he was touching her.

"The kid can read minds," Mulder whispered conspiratorially. "Hey Scully?" he added, suddenly more upbeat.

"Yes Mulder?" she asked, completely open and relaxed in his embrace. He ducked his head and continued in his 'spooky' voice, the one she remembered so well.

"Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" Scully grinned.

"Logically, I would have to say yes," she answered proudly, again reaching up to stroke his cheek as she repeated a thirteen year old answer with one, minor change. Mulder was beaming at her, and she had never felt more venerated. "But Mulder?"

"Yes?" he asked, his hands stilling against her back. She stepped up on her tiptoes again and he instinctively ducked his head, allowing her to brush her lips chastely over his.

"I believe in us more," she promised. "And we will survive this. You and me." Mulder nodded. Of that, he had never been more certain.


End file.
